She pressed her thumb to the center, where Lucien’s had rested.
The heat answered faintly. Not as sharp as it had been during the ceremony, but present,a warmth that pulsed once beneath her skin before fading back into stillness.
Her breath caught.
She forced herself to lower her hand.
A knock came at the door. Quick, efficient, not asking permission so much as announcing arrival.
“Yes.”
A young woman entered carrying a basin of steaming water and folded linen over one arm. She was small, dark-haired, witha quick fox-face and clever eyes that took in the room, Sabine, and the mark in three efficient glances before she set the basin on the washstand.
“Lysa Fen, my lady,” she said. “I’ve been assigned as your personal attendant.”
Her voice carried none of the formal smoothness palace servants usually deployed. Just clarity and a faint edge that suggested she had learned to speak plainly because decoration wasted time.
Sabine studied her. “How long have you worked in the bride wing.”
“Three years. Long enough to know which brides survive and which don’t.”
The bluntness landed cleanly.
Sabine crossed to the washstand. “Help me with this.”
Lysa moved quickly, untying the laces at Sabine’s back with practiced speed. The ivory gown loosened and fell. Sabine stepped out of it and stood in her shift while Lysa dampened a cloth and wrung it over the basin.
“Arm, please.”
Sabine extended her marked hand.
Lysa cleaned the skin around the dark lines with careful strokes, her gaze fixed on the pattern spreading from palm to wrist. Her face remained disciplined, but Sabine saw the faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.
“You’ve seen marks like this before,” Sabine said.
Lysa’s hands paused for half a breath. “I’ve seen marks.”
“Like this one.”
“No, my lady. Not exactly like this.”
“What makes it different.”
Lysa rinsed the cloth, wrung it again, and continued cleaning. When she finally answered, her voice had droppedlower. “The last bride marked first had lines that stopped at the wrist. Yours go deeper.”
Sabine’s pulse kicked. “What happened to her.”
“She’s dead, my lady.”
The words came flat. No embellishment. No euphemism.
Sabine kept her voice level. “How.”
Lysa set the cloth aside and reached for a length of clean linen to dry Sabine’s arm. “That depends on who you ask. The palace says grief. The temple says the gods’ will. The servants say the rite.”
“And you.”
Lysa met her eyes for one brief, steady moment. “I say no one tells the truth about dead brides, my lady. Not where it might matter.”
