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The estate’s corridors were quiet that evening. The candleglow in the sconces cast elongated shadows across the polished marble, and the only sound I heard was the soft padding of my own boots and the faint hum of the heating system—a lull after the storm.

I paused outside Talia’s door. The number 214 embossed on the dark wood felt heavier than most. I inhaled, shouldered the weight of the events of the last weeks—Lily’s rescue, Valko’s birth, the war that had barely begun—and knocked.

A moment passed.

Then the door opened.

Talia stood there in a loose robe, her hair tucked behind her ears, a flicker of surprise in...