THE BLADE'S EDGE

Consciousness returned like a tide of broken glass.

Lyra came back to awareness in pieces — first the pain, a dull throbbing behind her eyes that seemed to pulse in rhythm with someone else's heartbeat. Then the foreignness, the wrongness of her own body, like wearing clothes that didn't fit. Emotions that weren't hers swirled through her mind: confusion, fear, a strange fluttering sensation that might have been wonder.

She opened her eyes. White ceiling. Soft bed. The scent of herbs and clean linen. Not the Ashes. Not anywhere she recognized.

"You're awake." The voice came from her right. She turned her head — too fast, the room spun — and saw him. Kaelen Thorne. The Prince. Sitting in a chair beside her bed, looking like he'd been hit by a carriage and then set on fire.

"Where—" Her voice came out as a rasp. She tried again. "Where am I?"

"A secure room in the palace. No one else knows you're here." He leaned forward, and she felt his anxiety spike through whatever connected them — sharp, metallic, not her own. "How much do you remember?"

Lyra pushed herself up on her elbows. The room was small, windowless, furnished with just the bed and a chair. A healer's kit sat on a side table. The door was heavy oak, probably locked from the outside.

"I remember the balcony," she said slowly. "I remember... the blade. And then—" She touched her chest. The Crimson Thread was invisible now, but she could feel it, a warm pulse connecting her to the man across the room. "What did you do?"