POV: Nova
Thorne stepped in front of her, and the Crown's light stopped rising.
Just stopped. Like a tide that had been going out and suddenly remembered which direction was home. The pulling sensation in Nova's chest went still, and the light settled back into its resting warmth, and Morgessa's waiting hand closed on nothing.
The witch's expression didn't change. But her eyes sharpened.
"Move," Morgessa said.
"No," Thorne said.
He hadn't drawn a weapon. He didn't have ice burning in his hands. He was just standing there, between Nova and Morgessa, the way he'd been standing between people and harm all night, not because it was a strategy, but because it was simply what he did. What he'd always done. What the guards said about him in quiet voices when they thought no one was listening: the king goes first.
"Your brothers are still dying," Morgessa said, past him, to Nova.
"I know," Nova said.
"You had a deal."
"You hadn't broken the curse yet."
