It had been two weeks since the final sentences were handed down to Hadrian, Torric, Elowen, and the Aradeth envoy. The palace quieted, the corridors no longer crackling with whispered animosity. Yet when I walked through the courtyards in the early morning light, my reflection in still fountains seemed edged with unease. The threat Hadrian had issued—"This is only the beginning…"—echoed in my mind. Had the conspiracy truly ended, or were its roots still buried deeper, ready to sprout again?
Alexander seemed to sense my tension before I voiced it. One evening, we dined in the Rose Gallery, candles flickering on a table set beneath the blooming arbor of crimson and gold. The scent of jasmines drifted through the air. He studied me across the table, eyes warm but concerned. "You're still thinking of Hadrian's words," he said gently as the final course was cleared. "I can see it."
