The sun had surrendered to the horizon by the time the carriage clattered into the southern city. Marcella leaned against the window, her silver hair damp with sweat and dust. The air was thick here—stifling, unlike the crisp winds of Cardania.
In her past life, she had arrived in this city through the royal gates, escorted by banners and fanfare. The people had bowed. Streets had been swept before her feet touched them.
Now she entered as a stranger cloaked in road-dust, haunted by a vision she couldn't ignore.
"Your Grace?" the coachman asked hesitantly through the small window separating them. "Where shall I take you?"
Marcella blinked. For a moment, she forgot where she was, forgot the heat pressing down on her skin, the ache of worry gnawing at her ribs.
She had no idea where Berith was or where he was staying.
"Find the nearest inn to the southern plaza," Marcella replied. "Somewhere discreet, not too crowded."
