"26th."
That was the number he counted—twenty-six girls leaving the bathhouse in quiet succession, each emerging like specters into the thin morning light. No laughter, no casual chatter. Just the sound of wet footsteps, soft towel rustling, and silence—thick, loaded silence. Their faces were pale, eyes either cast downward or fixed straight ahead. Focused. Distant.
Zephyr watched from the edge of the room, his back pressed against one of the cold, polished columns that ringed the bathing quarters. The stone beneath his fingertips was damp with the last remnants of dawn mist. The sky hadn't even lightened yet. Pale lilac hovered above like a blanket stretched too tight, not ready to give way to sun. He wasn't sure if it was morning or just the death of night.
