PAVATI'S POV
The smell hit me first, cutting through the fog of sleep like a blade through silk. Blood. Fresh, warm, and far too much of it. My eyes snapped open in the darkness, every muscle in my body going rigid with recognition.
This wasn't the faint copper scent of a small cut or a bloody nose. This was the smell of violence, of serious injury, of someone dying. My warrior training kicked in before my brain could fully process what was happening. I rolled out of bed, my bare feet hitting the cold stone floor without a sound, and reached for the blade I kept under my pillow.
My fingers closed around the familiar weight of the hilt, and I crouched low, listening. The palace corridors were supposed to be safe, but I'd learned long ago that safety was an illusion in places like this. The other girls had been on edge since dinner, tension crackling between them like lightning before a storm. I'd wondered how long it would take for someone to finally snap.
