The corridor still vibrated from Belleah's laughter when the guards came running—too late, as always. The torches wavered, scattering amber light across her crimson gown. I stared at her, stunned, trying to understand how someone exiled to scrub stones in the East Wing now stood here draped in silk and venom.
Darius's hand hovered near his sword.
Mine, near the small knife in my boot.
"How are you here?" I asked, my voice low, shaking.
Belleah tilted her head, eyes glinting like shards of garnet. "Oh, you didn't hear? The empire missed me. The Duke of Alistair demanded the Emperor restore his only daughter's honor. Apparently, the trade of northern iron is far more valuable than your peace of mind."
Her smile widened. "I came as a political envoy. Isn't that delightful? Even exiled maids can be resurrected if their bloodline is strong enough."
My throat tightened. "You were supposed to be gone."
