The Keep slept.
Its old bones groaned quietly under the weight of frost and silence. Somewhere in the western wing, a shutter creaked. In the east tower, a candle sputtered out. And in the small, dim room Camille shared with Magnolia, a thread snapped.
It wasn't audible.
Not to most.
But Magnolia heard it in her chest. A tug. A chill. The kind that pulled your soul forward before your body even caught up.
She bolted upright, breath fogging in the cold.
Camille's bed was empty.
She didn't panic.
Not yet.
The blanket had been folded down not kicked off, not tossed. Deliberately turned, like the way Camille always did when she rose early for council training. Only there was no training scheduled. No breakfast shift. No prayer hour.
And no boots by the door.
Magnolia stood, heart already pounding. Her bond mark buzzed under her skin faint, distant, like a string stretched thin.
She crossed the room quickly.
Camille's cloak was gone.
So was her dagger.
