Dawn did not arrive gently.
It seeped in through the reinforced glass like something unwanted, pale light stretching across the floor in slow accusation.
Elara had not slept.
Sleep had become negotiation somewhere between instinct and pride, and she had refused to bargain with either.
The bond had quieted again.
Not gone.
Never gone.
Just—
Distant enough to hurt in a different way.
Ugh.
Footsteps approached before she could decide whether the silence was better than the ache.
Measured.
Professional.
Marco did knock.
Once.
Soft.
Like permission still mattered.
She did not answer.
The door opened anyway.
Because exile rarely required consent.
He stepped inside without looking directly at her.
Strategist first.
Witness second.
Because eye contact implied sympathy.
Because sympathy implied doubt.
And doubt—
Was not what the council needed this morning.
"The vehicle is ready," he said.
She let out a brittle laugh.
"Fantastic."
The word tasted like horse shit.
