I woke not to the gentle light of dawn filtering through the curtains, but to the cold, unyielding pressure of metal against my palm.
The Duke's signet ring. For a moment, disoriented by sleep, I didn't recognize it. It felt alien, a foreign object intruding upon the warmth of my bed. Then the events of the previous day crashed down upon me with the force of a tidal wave—the confrontation with Darius, the searing honesty of his words, and the profound, terrifying weight of the trust he had placed in me.
I sat up, the ring clutched in my hand. The iron was cold, almost unnaturally so, as if it carried the chill of the ancient bloodline it represented. It was heavy, far heavier than its size suggested. This was not a piece of jewelry; it was a symbol, a responsibility, a weapon.
