The vision tightens around me, pulling me like a noose cinching around my throat.
The soft edges of the palace blur into jagged stone and winter air so cold it bites.
I am no longer seeing just one night.
The timeline races.
Days turn into weeks.
Humiliation upon humiliation—brushed past me like sharp blades.
The memory rushes forward—
toward something terrible.
Something the voice wants me to see.
Something I once lived through
and died from.
My heart pounds.
The world steadies.
I'm in the throne hall.
But it isn't the bustling hall I know.
This one is filled with tension so thick it smothers the air.
Aria—
the past me—
stands alone in the center of the hall, surrounded by nobles, advisors, guards.
Their faces glow with anticipation, but not of celebration.
Of blood.
Of downfall.
Belleah stands at the front—not beside Darius, but close enough that her arm brushes his.
Her hand rests lightly on his forearm.
He doesn't move away.
My breath tightens.
