Elira moved like a shadow through the palace corridors, the stolen cloak folded close to her chest. Her hands trembled not from cold but from the weight of what she carried, a small act of rebellion wrapped in dark wool and silver braid.
Each step felt like a theft and a prayer. The cloak smelled faintly of Alpha Gonzalo, smoke and spice and the faint trace of his skin where he had draped it aside and it was a shock of ordinary possession in a world that had been rearranged by cruelty.
