Sunlight bled softly through the tall window arches, casting golden ribbons across the polished marble floor. Quinn stirred beneath the velvet covers, lids heavy with sleep, body still sore from the previous day's training. For a moment, there was peace. Warmth. Quiet.
Then it hit him.
Sofia.
He sat up fast—too fast—his vision blurring, the world tilting sideways. He gripped the edge of the bed, breath shallow. The night before lingered like smoke in his mind: her voice in the dark, the quiet promises, the weight of her hand in his.
She had said she was going outside the Safe Haven.
His blood turned to ice.
He shoved off the blankets and stumbled barefoot across the cold stone floor, yanking open the door.
"Sofia!" he called into the hallway. No answer.
The halls were alive with morning bustle—servants moving, guards patrolling, nobles whispering. But she was nowhere. He searched her room. The garden. The training yards. The war room. Panic built with every corner turned, every empty hallway.
The great doors of the inner gate stood shut now, guards posted on either side.
Too late.
He stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the iron bars, waiting for her to return, for someone to say it was a mistake. That she was still inside. That she hadn't gone beyond the walls. That she was safe.
No one said a word.
Quinn didn't eat. Didn't train. Will—the force stirring just beneath his skin—felt distant. Hollow. He couldn't reach for it. Not today.
He sat in the eastern tower, forehead pressed to the cold glass, eyes fixed on the distant fields where mist clung low to the earth.
She was out there. And he was in here. Helpless.
The golden morning faded into grey.
And Quinn, for the first time in this new life, felt small again.