Silas’s POVThe heavy oak wardrobe in the royal quarters stood open, its grand shelves mostly bare. My heavily bandaged hands, still raw and weeping clear fluid from the brutal, suicidal sprint through the northern crags, moved with slow, deliberate precision. I wasn't reaching for the ceremonial robes of state. I wasn't packing the velvet-lined cases meant for the royal crests or the ancestral signet rings.I placed a thick, worn wool sweater—a human garment—into a single, battered canvas duffel bag resting on the bed.Beside me, Cora sat on the edge of the mattress, her arms wrapped tightly around Leo. Our son was sleeping deeply, his breathing soft and rhythmic, his skin warm and flushed with a normal, healthy baseline. The lead-colored tracer lines under his skin had entirely faded into faint, silvery shadows, dormant and peaceful.Cora watched me, her dark eyes wide and glassy, tracking the movement of my hands. She didn't flinch away from the reality of wha
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