Morning after calamity is heavy with a curious stillness, as if the air itself is holding its breath in expectation of judgment was that living, or merely a delay until the next blow? I woke in the tangled midst of the royal nursery, a twin under each arm, all three of us sleep-mussed and clutching to the shreds of a nightmare that still had teeth. Sunlight struggled through creaked shutters, hesitant to rejoice or be silent.
I lay there for a moment, breathing in Aeris's apple-scented hair, Arion's thumb clenched tightly over his lips, and the bitter scent of smoke and sweat on my own body. I wished to believe that we were safe. I wished to believe my world had ceased spinning out of control. But if I had learned anything in the last twenty-four hours, it was that safety like magic, like forgiveness could disappear at the first hint of trouble.
