Luther, at that same moment, was walking calmly down the long silver bridge that led to his daughter's chambers. The guards at each corner bowed and stepped aside as he passed.
He already knew something was off.
When he reached Reva's chamber door, he paused. His fingers brushed against the polished handle — then he turned it slowly and pushed.
The door opened with a soft creak.
Empty.
The sheets were still creased, the faint scent of blood and medicine in the air, but no one was inside.
Luther's eyes narrowed. He scanned the room once, his sharp gaze catching every minor detail — the moved chair, the shifted curtain, the missing cloak from the hanger.
Then it hit him.
"He's awake," Luther muttered under his breath, voice like a growl.
Outside, faint shouts echoed from the distant halls — guards calling to one another, orders being barked, footsteps moving fast.
