The palace doors opened, along with it a hiss of warm air and the scent of citrus blossoms rushed forward to meet them.
Gold light spilled across the marble floor, the mirrored walls catching every flicker of motion like a thousand watching eyes.
Cynthia strode in first, her cloak dusty from travel but her chin high. "Announce us," she told the stunned steward.
He hesitated, eyes flickering from her to the wild-eyed fugitives behind her.
"Now."
The man bowed and scurried off.
Violet lingered at the threshold. Her braid was frayed, her clothes worn out. Theron stood beside her, his back straight, jaw set and his hand brushing hers once before falling back to his side.
"It's not too late to run," he murmured.
She gave him a sideways look. "We've been running long enough."
Moments later, the throne room doors opened.
