Elara Elmblood crouched behind the gardener's cottage and counted the guards at the gate. Two more than yesterday. The crown that proved her blood was inside the castle walls, and she could not walk to the door and ask for it. Anyone wearing her uncle's colors would drag her away before she spoke her name. She watched the steward's red banner snap above the inner courtyard. It marked every path her uncle's men patrolled. Going in as herself was finished. She had known it for a day. Now she had to choose another skin. The kitchen girls came through the side hedge each morning with baskets of cut herbs. Plain aprons. Hoods up against the wind. Elara had counted them three days running. Seven went in. Seven came out. No one checked their faces. She slipped into the cottage and pulled a folded apron from beneath a loose floor stone. She had placed it there a week ago, waiting for this moment. She tied it tight, smudged her hands with soil, and pulled a hood low across her brow. At dawn she joined the line of girls at the hedge. A guard waved them through without a glance. Elara stepped onto the castle path with her basket steady and her heart steadier. She was inside. And now she had only hours before someone noticed an eighth face among the seven.