The silk bridge was quiet before dawn.
Mist curled beneath the narrow wooden pathway suspended above dark waters, the thin silk lanterns swaying gently in the cold breeze. It was the kind of place lovers met in secret.
Or traitors.
Lady Seraphine stood near the edge in robes of pale gold, elegant fingers resting against the railing as she stared into the fog below. Her face remained calm, but irritation simmered underneath.
Because somehow.
Somehow.
The lowborn tribute girl refused to die.
Footsteps approached behind her.
King Torran of Westmar emerged from the mist dressed entirely in black, a fur-lined cloak hanging over his broad shoulders. Tall. Handsome. Dangerous in the way wolves were dangerous.
He looked at Seraphine once before speaking.
"You summoned me before sunrise," he said lazily. "This better be important."
Seraphine turned toward him slowly.
"It is."
Torran's gaze sharpened.
"Then speak."
Her nails pressed lightly into the silk railing.
"Elara."
