Mira curled tighter against the carriage wall, knees pressed to her chest as if the wood might swallow her whole and bury her in silence. But silence would not come. Their voices still echo in her ears—Asael's contempt, Galahad's shock, Lara's cold condemnation. Words sharper than any blade, cutting deeper because they were true.
They know. They all know. The thought came like a growl, low and gruff, reverberating inside her.
Her breath comes ragged, uneven. She pressed her palm against her mouth to keep from sobbing too loudly, but the sting of her torn skin reminded her of what she had done. The blood seeped hot between her fingers, warm against the chill air. It was almost comforting. Pain at least kept her grounded.
But was she truly wrong?
No, you are not wrong. You just wanted to live. To clutch at breath when death loomed so near. That voice again—firm, almost kind.
