I had a plan.
It was not a good plan. But it was a plan.
After last night's soul-shattering call with my grandmother whose romantic advice included "die poetically if you must" I'd decided that maybe, maybe, I would stop avoiding Elyzara like she was made of enchanted lava and social anxiety.
I would say hi.
That was it. One syllable. Simple.
Not a confession. Not a declaration of destiny. Just... hi.
And yet, as I stood outside the main corridor of the eastern wing Elyzara's usual morning route, precisely calculated down to the minute I found myself pinned to the wall like a hunted ghost.
You could do this, I told myself. You are the heir of the Nightthorn bloodline. Your ancestors survived plagues, firestorms, and a duel with a werewolf over a wine dispute. You can say hi.
Footsteps echoed.
Voices. Laughing.
I stiffened.
