A week had passed.
Seven days.
To Marissa, it felt like seven years.
Every morning, she had woken up before dawn, her heart racing, her hand reaching for the empty space in the bed beside her. Every morning, she had rushed to the foyer, waiting for the sound of hooves, waiting for a messenger with the crest of the Thompson Army.
And every morning, there was nothing.
No rider appeared on the horizon. No letter arrived with Derek's handwriting. The reports from the north had stopped coming. The silence was absolute, a cold void that seemed to grow larger with every passing hour.
Marissa sat in the Thompson family carriage as it rattled over the frozen cobblestones. The wheels slipped occasionally on patches of black ice, causing the vehicle to lurch. She gripped the leather strap by the window, her knuckles white.
