Rowan.
I used to think silence was a gift.
Back in Julia's camp, silence meant survival. If I wasn't noticed, I couldn't be used. If I didn't speak, I couldn't betray anything. I became good at listening without reacting, good at bowing when my claws itched to strike, good at staring at the fire without flinching when it wanted to eat me alive.
But this silence—this one here in the Queen's keep—felt different.
Not protective. Not peaceful.
It felt like waiting.
Waiting for a reckoning.
I sat by the narrow east window, the one that overlooked the forests beyond the stone walls. It was still light out, but the shadows had begun to stretch long. The fire behind me was little more than coals. The air was warm, but it wasn't the hearth that held my attention.
It was the wind.
And whether it smelled like smoke.
It would, eventually. I knew that.
Because I knew her.
