A Marriage of Swords
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That night, as Leigh packed her meager belongings—the leathers, the hidden tools, a single, simple wool dress—she placed the velvet pouch with the shell at the very top of her saddlebag, where she could feel its shape through the leather.
She was going home. Not as a daughter, but as the King’s gambit. And the prince, the frozen, wounded, infuriating prince, was her escort. The board was set. The pieces were in motion. And for the first time since she’d arrived in this gilded cage, Leigh felt the exhilarating, terrifying freedom of moving toward the storm, not away from it.