The scent of jasmine and blood clings to the halls like a ghost that won't leave.
It's late when the knock comes. Sharp. Measured. No servant would dare. No enemy would knock. I'm in the atrium, seated beneath the stained-glass moon etched into the ceiling, swirling a drink I've barely touched. The chandelier above trembles faintly, as if anticipating what's to come.
"Elara," I call softly, not needing to raise my voice. She appears almost instantly from the shadows, barefoot and alert.
"There's someone at the gate," she says. "She gave no name. Said you would know her by her eyes."
"I do."
Elara hesitates. "Should I let her in?"
I drain the glass. "Too late. She's already here."
The door opens on a woman who doesn't belong to this time.
