Serai couldn't tell how long it had been since she woke up again.
There was no sun in the cell. No moonlight. No windows. Just the same stone ceiling, the same dim sconces burning with the kind of flame that felt like it had no heat.
Her arms ached from the restraints. Her mouth was dry.
But she was awake.
She'd stayed that way—afraid to sleep again. Not because of fear. She knew fear. Lived with it. Survived it.
No—what she feared now was what sleep might show her next.
Because that memory… that warmth… her mother's voice brushing through her hair… That wasn't just a dream. She could still feel it in her chest. Like someone had taken something from another life and dropped it into her bones.
It didn't make sense.
Nothing made sense since she'd seen him.
Footsteps echoed faintly outside the cell door.
Two voices. Guards, low and careless. They didn't realize she was awake.
"…did you hear what happened?" one whispered. "The second son. Made the heir cry like a toddler in front of the court."
"You're joking."
"I saw him after. Eyes red. Couldn't even speak. Half the nobles left early."
"What about the second one? What'd they do with him?"
"Gave him a fief. Out past the rivers. Practically exile. Better than chains, I guess."
"Hah. Sounds worse."
Their footsteps faded.
Serai stared at the ceiling, unmoving.
Second son…
She remembered him now. His face above the balcony. The moment their eyes met.
The jolt. The way something in her had reached for him without asking permission.
Her breathing slowed.
There was something in her chest—pulling. Faint. Like a thread caught beneath her skin, tightening when she thought of him.
Not warmth. Not trust. Not yet.
But presence.
He was getting farther away.
Serai sat up slowly.
The thread was still there—faint, quiet, just beneath thought. It didn't make sense. It didn't obey logic. But it was real.
And she hated that she could feel it.
Hated more that she wasn't sure if she wanted to cut it.
The Marquis stood with his back to the fire, one hand resting on the mantle.
He didn't turn when the door opened.
"I thought you might show up," he said.
The Wazir entered like a shadow bending into shape. He wore the same layered silks, the same tilted expression. His steps were silent, and he stopped just inside the room.
"I would've written a letter," the Wazir said, "but you burn everything you don't like to hear."
The Marquis glanced at him. "You're leaving."
"Hmm." A soft sound. "So you heard."
"I assumed," the Marquis said. "You're rarely still. But I thought—maybe this time—you'd stay."
The Wazir smiled faintly, his hands tucked inside his sleeves. "And give speeches at the boy's funeral? Stand beside Valtan like nothing happened? No, no. I rather like my dignity intact."
"You're one of the few minds in this court I still consider essential."
"Ah. You mean annoying."
"I mean irreplaceable."
Another pause. The fire crackled behind them, indifferent.
"I'm not surprised you chose him," the Marquis said after a beat. "But I am disappointed."
"You sound like a man who believed the end hadn't already begun," the Wazir replied gently. "He's not the one leaving, you know. This House is."
The Marquis turned fully now, eyes hard. "He humiliated the heir."
"He revealed the heir's cracks," the Wazir said, unbothered. "You think Valtan wept because he was weak? No. He wept because for one second—just one—he remembered something true. And truth, my lord, is far more dangerous than weakness."
The Marquis said nothing.
The Wazir bowed—shallow, ironic, respectful only in shape.
"I'll walk the edge with him. That's where real things happen."
He turned to leave.
"You'll regret this," the Marquis said—not cruelly. Just honestly.
The Wazir stopped at the door.
"Perhaps," he said. "But at least I'll remember why."
And then he was gone.