Dawn crept through the narrow window of Reed's temporary quarters, casting sickly yellow light across the chamber. The Tournament officials had relocated him overnight—a gesture they claimed was for his protection, though the additional wards and guards suggested otherwise. Reed sat on the edge of his bed, fingers steepled beneath his chin, watching as the light slowly revealed the sparse furnishings.
They'd separated him from Shia. Her absence left an uncomfortable void in his awareness, like a phantom limb. The void-touched assassin had become more than a tool; she was now intrinsically linked to whatever dark game played out around them. Without her, Reed felt exposed.
A soft knock interrupted his contemplation. Marcus entered, carrying a tray laden with bread, fruit, and a steaming pot of tea. His face bore the pallor of sleeplessness, but his eyes remained sharp.
"Eat, my lord," he said, setting the tray down. "The game intensifies today."
