Chapter 43. The Cost of a Crown

The stronghold had long since fallen into sleep. Its walls no longer echoed with footsteps or laughter, and most windows now stood dark, shuttered against the night. Yet Mira moved through it as though the halls had summoned her, her bare feet whispering over cool stone, each step a quiet rebellion.

She had said nothing to the maids. She wore only a silk robe, her hair loose, her skin still damp from a bath that had done little to soothe her nerves. Something in her had simply snapped. The walls had begun to press too tightly, the blankets too heavy, the silence too loud.

And so she had left—through the hall, past the winding corridor that led to the eastern wing, then through the archway into the garden. There had been no plan. Only a need to breathe—from the walls, from the weight of a thousand expectations, from the war inside her own skin.

She passed beneath the archway leading into the gardens, and the night air met her like a balm. It was sharp with pine, wet