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“—that’s enough, Annora.” She stands abruptly and laces her hands together.

“You were my protector,” I say in a raw voice. “My tide. You kept everything flowing, kept me safe. Where’s that sister now?”

Her expression softens, and for a moment, I see her—my Asha, the one who’d chase away my nightmares and kiss my scraped knees. Then, that look is gone, replaced by a coldness that could freeze all of Bakva.

“That sister died with her son, and she’s not coming back.” How flat her words are. How emotionless.

Pain threads around my heart, but I continue, needing to say these words. “I love you. I’ll always love you. Even if you can’t love yourself anymore.”

She glances away, her shoulders rigid. “Leave, Annora.Please.”

Thatplease—so soft, so broken—shatters what’s left of my heart. Because in it, I hear the echo of my sister crying out from whatever dark place she’s trapped herself in, but I can’t reach her, can’t save her.

So, I do the one thing she asked. I walk away.

Chapter Eleven

Annora

The afternoon sunstreams through the palace windows, casting long shadows across the marble floors as Tahira and I make our way back from the gardens later that day.

She grins as she recounts a story about the time she convinced one of the cooks to let her help bake bread—only to end up covered head to toe in flour.

“And then…” Tahira clutches her sides as she continues, “…I sneezed, and the entire kitchen looked like it had snowed inside.”

A grin tugs at my lips as I swipe strands of hair behind my ears. “I remember that day. Mother was so cross with you.”

“It was worth it. That bread was delicious, even if it was a bit...” Tahira scrunches her nose, searching for the right word.

“Crunchy?”

Mirth dances in her eyes as she bumps her shoulder against mine. “I was going to say well done, but crunchy works too.”

We pause at the intersection where our paths diverge—her bedchambers to the left, mine to the right.

“Do you want to meet the same time tomorrow?” she asks as she backs toward her room.

“Of course,” I say, knowing these walks have become our daily ritual—a ritual I desperately need right now.

“Don’t forget to bring those sketches you promised to show me,” she calls over her shoulder before disappearing into her bedchamber.

As I turn and step into my own bedchamber, my gaze falls on a folded piece of parchment on the floor. I lean down to scoop it up and unfold it.

Go to the cellar.

I read the message again, searching for more—a signature, any hint of who sent it.

Jasce?

My heart races as I envision him close enough to leave this message, close enough to pull me into his arms, close enough to kiss me.

Please let it be him, Olah.

Please.

But as quickly as my joy soars, apprehension thrums against my chest. What if Aleksander or Asha found this letter?

The hem of my gown lashes against my legs as I pivot and toss the parchment into the fireplace.