“Sit,” Keres ordered, pushing a bowl toward me. “Eat.”
I obeyed.
Callan stabbed his spoon into his porridge. “It’s gritty. Why is it gritty?”
“Because we heard you hated gritty porridge and obviously went out of our way to prepare it so,” Keres snapped. “Eat.”
Callan scrunched his face like a toddler forced to choke down vegetables, then took a dramatic bite—and made a face.
Rydian sat down beside me and whispered, “I can kill him now. No one will blame me.”
I kicked him under the table.
His hand brushed my knee in retaliation.
My breath caught.
Gods. This was impossible. Breakfast shouldn’t feel like foreplay.
Daegel noticed and winked. Keres shot him a look sharp enough to cut stone. Lesha—propped up on cushions and sipping weak tea—offered me a small smile. Color had returned to her cheeks. Her wings… well. They weren’t wings anymore. But she was alive. She was fighting.
And that was enough.
I relaxed into the morning for the first time in forever.
But peace in Menryth rarely lasted longer than five minutes.
A knock sounded at the front door—three sharp strikes that made the whole room go still.
Everyone reached for weapons.
Rydian’s shadows surged forward like a living storm.
I stood.
Keres held up a hand. “Wait. None of our wards alerted us to a guest. We need to be sure it’snot?—”
The knock came again, and Rydian stiffened. He rose and went to the door, hand hovering over the latch. Shadows pooled at his feet, ready to spring.
He opened it a crack.
A scroll slipped through the gap, wrapped in black ribbon and sealed with?—
Oh.
My breath hitched at the sight of the raven’s wings. Midnight’s crest.
Rydian inhaled sharply. He snatched the scroll, shut the door, locked it, reinforced it with a burst of shadow that climbed the wood like vines.
Callan stared. “What is that?”
Rydian didn’t answer.
He broke the seal.
Unrolled the parchment.
Read.
