Zarek.
I dragged a hand down my face, my palm scraping over my jaw as I shut the chamber door behind us. The wood clicked into place with a heavy thud, and the sound echoed through the room like a blow to my chest. Everything felt suffocating—thick, heavy, tense—like the air itself refused to move.
“Valtira is locked up in the dark room,” I muttered, the words leaving a bitter taste on my tongue. “I don’t know what to do from here onward.”
Zechariah stood beside me, broad-shouldered and steady, watching me with that quiet, unwavering gaze he always reserved for moments that were too sharp, too painful, too dangerous.
“Zarek,” he said softly, “you need to ask Lyssandra to pardon her.”
My head snapped toward him, a frown pulling at my brow. “Pardon her?” My voice came out harsher than I
