The great hall had nearly emptied. The last of the servants were clearing the tables, their movements efficient and quiet. Marta had disappeared into the depths of the fortress, her brisk instructions echoing briefly before fading. I stood alone near the high table, still processing the weight of the morning, when the atmosphere shifted.
A ripple ran through the remaining occupants—servants pausing in their work, heads turning toward the main doors. Conversations, already sparse, died completely. The hall fell into a silence so profound I could hear the crackle of the dying fires in the great hearths.
I turned to see what commanded such attention.
She stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the torchlight of the corridor beyond. For a moment, she was just a shape, a presence. Then she stepped forward, into the light of the hall, and I saw her clearly.
Elara Frost.
