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I changed slowly, and at a cost. My side ached with each movement, new bandages biting into my shirt.

Isolde's touch had been softer than I'd dare to speak aloud, and her cold had melted to something near. warm, when she'd removed the bullet.

On my own now, I stiffly moved, straining on a fresh shirt and jacket, pushing myself to stand.

It would not be good to be flimsy in front of the queens—worse enough, to allow the court to witness just how far one bullet shook me.

The passageways outside my room were empty, late afternoon light etching lines on the stone floor.

A servant would sometimes glance my way, eyes widening, no doubt already making declarations of my return, of the wound, of blood.

Let them talk. Rumor was preferable to truth: that the world outside these doors grew more dangerous by the minute.