The palace slept. Moonlight spilled across silent courtyards, the only sound the distant hiss of molten rivers.
Daya stirred from uneasy dreams, her chest tight. She could not shake the feeling of being watched. Rising from her cot, she slipped into the corridor.
A flicker of movement caught her eye. A hooded figure slid past, footsteps soft as silk.
Curiosity warred with fear. But when she glimpsed the glint of steel beneath the cloak, her blood froze.
A knife.
The figure pushed open a door—the entrance to the guest quarters where Vanda sometimes rested after council.
Her heart thundered. She should run. Call for guards. But instead, her feet carried her forward, silent as a shadow.
Inside, the cloaked assassin raised his blade above the bed.
"No—!" Daya cried, leaping without thinking.
The assassin whirled, steel flashing.
The knife sliced downward, straight toward her chest.