Chapter 54

• Darren
• The palace loomed behind her, a monolith of gray stone and gilded spires, its shadow swallowing the courtyard whole. Leila stood at the edge of that shadow, small and fragile, like a bird with a broken wing. Her dress hung loose on her frame, once vibrant fabric now dulled, as if the very air around the imperial walls had sucked the life from it. Her hair straggled in damp strands down her back, and when she lifted her head, her eyes were sunken, pupils dilated—hollow, except for the flicker of recognition when she saw the car.
• It hit me then, the way a painting hits you sometimes—not for the brushstrokes, but for the weight of it. She was that painting. All raw, aching color, a portrait of something breaking.