Phoebe's POV
The grief sat heavy in my chest like a stone I couldn't swallow. Through the glass coffin, Elder Tricia looked peaceful—almost as if he were simply taking one of his afternoon naps in his favorite chair by the library fireplace.
Marcela's preservation spell had worked perfectly. No signs of the violence that had taken him, no evidence of his final, desperate fight to protect us all. Just the kind, weathered face I remembered from countless conversations in the palace gardens.
My fingers pressed against the cold glass, and I wished desperately that I could reach through and grasp his hand one final time. The same hand that had steadied me through brutal council meetings, that had guided me through the maze of royal politics, that had never once failed to offer comfort when I needed it most.
