Dusk creeps in the way it always does here, slow and deliberate, shadows stretching long across stone floors while the packhouse shifts gears around it, and I feel the change before I see it because the bond tightens in response, humming low and insistent beneath my skin as if it knows what’s coming and is bracing for impact. I sit on the edge of the bed and lace my boots carefully, pulling each knot snug with movements that feel almost ritualistic, because routine is the only thing keeping my hands from shaking.
Someone knocks once and waits, the sound controlled and respectful, and when the door opens it’s Mara again, her expression professionally neutral as she steps inside with a clean jacket folded over her arm. “You’ll want this,” she says, holding it out. “Council chambers get cold
