I had not meant to stop her, yet my hand had moved of its own will, closing upon her wrist like a man clutching the edge of a cliff. I could not let her go—not when every step she took away from me felt like a blade pressed deeper into my chest. Anger licked through me, sharp and bitter, not at her, never at her, but at this fate that bound me and tore me apart in the same breath.

Without a word, I led her, my stride heavy, to the bathing chamber adjoining my quarters. The faint smell of sandalwood from earlier ablutions still lingered, but it was the silence that pressed between us like smoke, suffocating and unbroken. She followed, or perhaps she resisted—I did not turn to see. All I knew was the tremor in her wrist beneath my fingers, fragile as a bird’s wing, alive and trembling.