Chapter 343. Symbolism Doesn’t Hold Portals

The south lawn should have smelled like cut grass and sun. Instead it smelled like smoke, sweat, and too many bodies pressed into too little space.

Ann walked the perimeter anyway, her cloak traded for a plain jacket and her crown left behind. It was just her, boots in the dirt, and a small ring of guards shadowing her steps. The palace rose behind them, its stone bright in the midday glare. Ahead of her lay a mass of: tents and Cooking fires, children’s voices cutting high through the low mutter of adults as they ran among the tents.

Adam was gone.

He’d left before dawn, Dark Moon already moving in convoy, wolves shifting between fur and skin as they hauled wagons, supplies, weapons in a line that followed the few trucks he had allowed to escort them. The less attention they drew, the better. At least with wagons there was still the possibility of farmers on the road.

He hadn’t wanted to go, not with everything still so raw, but he had. Because she’d ordered