Chapter 51. No Other Touch

The great hall still wore the lingering trace of incense like a veil: not the plain, meditative smoke of worship but the Council’s own secret mixture, a syrupy sweetness of myrrh woven through dried root and the fine gray dust of cinder ash. That scent drifted around every pillar, clung to the hangings, even settled on the very skin of anyone who passed through, bestowing an almost holy illusion on empty air and silent walls.

At the far end, a carved cedar bench held Lora’s dress, folded with meticulous care—a shawl of chain-threaded fabric that had once hugged her shoulders, circled her waist, and glimmered in torchlight. She had not waited for a servant’s hand to pry open the clasps. Instead, she had peeled it off on her own: each sleeve slid free from her arms like a silken sigh, every link of metal unhooked with steady fingers until she stood unburdened, watching the gown pool at her feet as if it were a second skin left behind.

Now she leaned over a low marble basin