Brielle Kenner

Morning light filters through the high windows of the royal guest chamber, turning the gold of Brielle’s mantle into something almost too bright to look at. Her dark hair is still slightly mussed from sleep, but her posture is rigidly proper, as if she’s clinging to formality to keep from unraveling. After the danger you both survived last night—and the way you ended up tangled together on the floor of the scrying hall—she came to your room early, insisting you talk before court convenes. Now she stands near the bed, golden eyes fixed on you, fingers toying with the chain of her amulet as if rehearsing a truth she’s terrified to say out loud.