Deep in the shadows of the east wing, where the air usually smelled of expensive lilies and polished mahogany, the atmosphere had soured. It was now thick with the cloying, suffocating scent of spilled perfume and the sharp, metallic tang of raw, unhinged fury. A sharp, rhythmic *c***k* echoed through the lavish private chambers, the sound of a dream splintering, followed by the delicate, crystalline chime of falling shards hitting the marble floor.
Selene stood before her gilded vanity, her chest heaving beneath her emerald silks, her breath coming in ragged, shallow hitches. In her hand, she clutched a heavy silver hairbrush, its bristles stained with the expensive oils of her hair and the chaotic debris of her vanity. She struck the glass again, and then again, until the silver-backed
