The East Wing of the Palace felt less like a Royal suite and more like a gilded interrogation chamber.
Grey marble stretched endlessly underfoot, cold and indifferent, while vaulted ceilings loomed overhead like the ribs of a giant stone beast. And the mirrors, there were far too many of them, multiplied every exhaustion-lined flaw a hundredfold, forcing me to watch my own unraveling from every angle.
I stood on the dressing dais, my feet aching with a rhythmic throb, while the staff hovered in the shadows like frightened birds waiting for a predator to strike.
But it wasn’t just the servants.
Elara sauntered toward the fireplace, where a heavy mahogany drink cabinet stood stocked for the elite. She poured herself a glass of something amber and ruinously expensive, the liquid swirling
