We laughed, the sound flung out to sea like bright pebbles. Below, waves hammered rock ancient, indifferent rhythm. Above, gulls whirled, bearing witness.
It was the last moment of peace.
As Velka and I retraced the cliff path to the palace, dawn burning in our wake, something sharp threaded the air a shift, a tension, as if the world were holding its breath. We reached the lower courtyard just as Mara burst from a side gate, hair tangled, sword belt askew, breathless in a way I hadn't seen since the siege drills of my earliest days.
"Trouble?" Velka asked, voice gone cold and clipped.
"Worse," Mara rasped. "The North Gate's breached. Not bandits. Rebels organized, armed, inside the walls."
The word "rebels" felt different this time. It didn't conjure vague discontent, pamphlets, or scone-based protests. It meant violence. It meant all the worst-case scenarios the council whispered over cold tea.
