Chapter 63. The Chamber of Tides

Three nights is a long time when a city watches you breathe.

Dawn belonged to drills and the bitter tea Orla swore was for clarity (it tasted like regret and dandelions). Noon belonged to knives and Mavienne’s small corrections that hurt more than blows. Dusk belonged to Syra’s staff and the wind that tried to turn my balance into a story about falling. Every hour in between belonged to the Veil-cuff, warming and cooling like a tide that had learned my pulse.

The third night crept in dressed like rain and found us waiting at the Veilheart.

The chamber door looked carved from one piece of moonstone, its surface rippled. Varya stood with two lanterns guttering to blue. Neris leaned against a pillar like a shadow that had gotten bored and learned sarcasm. Syra checked the aft corridor with the same patience she gave battlefields. Mavienne said nothing at all—only watched me as if she were memorizing where every bruise would bloom.

“Bring what you would ke