Silver felt warmth wrap her body, then the ache.
It spread through her like slow fire under her skin, and for a moment Silver thought she was finally done for.
When she opened her eyes, her chamber stared back at her—bathed in pale light that flickered as though the candles couldn't decide whether to live or die. The curtains swayed though there was no breeze. The scent of iron clung to everything.
She blinked once. Then again.
Her body didn't move.
And then she saw herself.
Lying on her bed, tangled in blood-soaked sheets, her chest barely rising.
Silver froze.
The girl's face—her face—was wax-pale. The nightgown was torn across the abdomen, soaked in blood. Servants rushed around her in blurred silhouettes, hands pressing cloths against wounds that wouldn't close. Their voices muffled through like a song heard underwater.
"She's losing too much blood—"
"The wound won't close—"
"Someone find His Majesty—"
Silver tried to speak. No sound came.
