Moonlight had been generous last night; dawn now offered only a thin, accusing slit of gold through the lattice. The jasmine terrace where we had sworn to unmask treason still smelled faintly of their perfume and our breath — a scent I could not decide if I had grown to loathe or crave. The marble under my palm felt colder than it had any right to be. Paper and ink had turned the palace's secret into a blade; paper had shown Arjun's hand, Dhanvantari's tests, the ledger of neem oil moved at Rajmata's sign. We had words. We had witnesses. We had wrath.
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