MDays bled into nights, and Ayla wore the mask of Luca's queen like a second skin. Silk dresses instead of rags. A seat at his right hand. A cold, empty bed in a room of silver and shadows.
Outside, the world drowned beneath endless rain. Inside, the storm was hers.
---
Every glance was calculated. Every word measured.
Luca watched her with those wolf-like eyes, amused and intrigued, as if waiting for her to break.
Let him wait, she thought. I'll break him first.
And all the while, the assassin girl—Mira—moved in the hidden places of the compound, guided by Ayla's whispered orders.
They met at night, in the hollow belly of the old wine cellar, where the rot of the past clung to the stone.
"I mapped the east wing," Mira said, breathless, trembling with fear and hope. "There's a guard rotation at dawn. Two men. Both drunk half the time."
Ayla nodded, her mind stitching the pieces together. "Good. Keep watching. And don't get caught. If Luca suspects—"
