The corridors of Alaric's mansion echoed with silence, a strange stillness that made Acantha's boots sound louder than usual against the marble floors. Her heart pounded in her chest—not from fear, but a growing unrest that festered with each passing day. Ever since Elizabeth had returned, walking the halls like she belonged, things had been spiraling beyond her control. That necromancer, the Queen's daughter, the one who should have rotted in the Hive's prison—was now free, and more infuriatingly, welcome.
Acantha reached the edge of the hallway and paused, eyes narrowing. Elizabeth stood in the center of the drawing room, her posture elegant, her hands clasped behind her back, gaze fixed out the tall stained glass window as if watching the sky bleed. The late afternoon light made her violet eyes gleam like cursed gemstones.
Acantha's fingers curled. "You."
