Camille

The fire pops softly in the hearth, the sound too loud in the quiet of the royal library.

I stand near the tall windows, hands clasped behind my back, staring across the room at Hope. She sits in one of the high-backed chairs, fingers folded neatly over the curve of her belly, her expression calm—but her eyes miss nothing. She watches my face the way a healer watches a wound: carefully, already bracing for what might be revealed.

I inhale slowly before I speak.

“My scouts are missing,” I say at last.

Hope’s brows knit together. She doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t rush me. She waits, which somehow makes it worse....