The moon hung heavy over the castle like a judging eye. Bloated, pale, and watchful. It hovered in the sky like an omen, casting cold silver light across the spires of the Varyn stronghold. Beneath its glow, the queen’s private wing remained untouched by sleep. No torch flickered in the corridors. No servant dared wander her halls. It was a sacred, haunted silence, the kind that wrapped around the heart like frost.
Queen Seraphine sat alone before her hearth, the fire snapping gently, casting erratic shadows on the stone walls. Smoke from smoldering herbs drifted through the chamber, bitter and thick, curling into the shape of old curses. Her goblet of bloodwine, deep and dark as sin, sat untouched beside her, forgotten. Her hands were clenched in her lap, gold rings biting into her skin.
