But she’s still alert. Still armed with her pathetic little weapon.
Still ready to fight.
She’s been guarding herself all night. Against threats I should have prevented.
My chest constricts with unexpected emotion.
She notices me in the doorway and goes rigid, the awl rising slightly. Then recognition hits, and some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
“You.” Her voice is hoarse from exhaustion. “I thought you were—” She stops herself.
“Who did you think I was?”
“Someone who wants me dead.” She doesn’t lower the awl. “Which, given the circumstances, could be almost anyone.”
I step into the room and close the door behind me. Her eyes track my movement, wary but not afraid. Alert.
“You heard the marks made on your door.”
“Hard to miss.” She shifts position slightly, keeping me in sight. “One of your warriors paid me a visit last night. The guards let them try my lock.”
The calm way she says it makes my jaw clench. No hysteria, no tears. Just acceptance of reality and determination to survive it.
Her gray eyes are steady on mine. “How many of your people want me dead?”
The question is blunt. Direct. No games or manipulation—just a woman trying to understand the threats she faces.
“Unknown. But enough that you’re not safe here.”
She gestures toward the scratched door. “At least here I know what I’m facing.”
The practical acceptance in her voice hits harder than fear would. She’s not asking for rescue or protection—just information to help her survive.
“It’s defensible. One entrance. One window with solid bars. Guards I trust.”
“The guards you trusted were watching my corridor.”
The reminder stings because it’s true. “These are different.”
“We’ll see.”
I secure the door behind us and check the window latches personally. Old habits from years of expecting assassination attempts.
Zoraya settles into the chair, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. The position makes her looksmaller, younger. Vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with size.
But the awl stays in her grip.
“Tell me about the banners Brakka brought,” I say.
Her expression shifts. “You want me to mend your battle flags?”
“I want to know what you saw when you looked at them.”
She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Tears that were too clean. Too precise. Like they were cut with a very sharp blade rather than torn in battle.” Her voice gains confidence as she speaks. “The damage patterns were wrong for combat damage.”
“How wrong?”
“Combat tears follow stress lines in fabric. Metal striking cloth creates jagged rips, frayed edges. These were clean cuts, made when the fabric wasn’t under tension.” She meets my eyes. “Someone sabotaged those banners. Recently.”
