Isadora:
Two days of near-normalcy feel like a miracle.
I wake, attend every class, and—despite the ever-present whispers of the wards—the boys keep their silent promise. Each night one or all of them slips into the room, shadow and warmth woven together. Sometimes Silas claims the windowsill, shadows curling at his boots. Sometimes Rhett stands guard by the door, a dark sentinel. Kai always finds a way to make me laugh before sleep claims me. Even Lucian, though he pretends indifference, lingers in the hallway until dawn bruises the horizon.
It’s…refreshing. Almost normal.
Almost.
By the night of the Festival masquerade, the castle hums with anticipation. Music thrums faintly through stone corridors, a heartbeat in the bones of Ashwyck.
A knock breaks the quiet. When I open the door
