Julian placed the petals into the mortar. He added the Bitter-Roots he'd purchased from the store, the pungent, earthy smell momentarily cutting through the cloying scent of the Palace's jasmine.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
The sound of the pestle against the silver was the only thing filling the room. He ground the ingredients together, pouring all of his focus, all of his desperation into the motion. He needed this, at least to be able to close his tired eyes.
As the paste turned into a thick, swirling violet liquid, Julian felt a strange sensation—a prickle of heat at the back of his neck.
Slowly, he turned his head toward the window. There was no one, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that someone was watching him.
He left the concoction for a bit and walked towards the balcony window, the water spraying violently on the glass.
It was dark outside, and the guards were probably standing underneath the balcony, so there should be no one to—
