(Liora POV)
The east wing smelled like wet iron and charred fur. Blood had soaked into the mortar between stones so deeply that every step made a soft, sucking sound. I kept my breathing shallow, silver light coiled tight around my hands like liquid moonlight — not blazing, not yet. I had learned the hard way that uncontrolled radiance only painted a bigger target on my back.
Serena was waiting at the junction where the old armory hall met the spiral stair to the upper galleries. Moonlight fell through a broken rose window, splintering across her face in red and violet shards. Her scout leathers were ripped at the left shoulder; a long cut wept sluggishly down her cheek. The curved dagger in her right hand still carried fresh blood — loyalist blood, from the look of the smears.
She saw me and gave the small, sad smile that used to mean "we survived another patrol together."
Now it meant goodbye.
