Serenya's POV
The Dravenhart Conservatory gleams like it was carved from frost. Every corner reflects the same sharp discipline that its patrons worship—perfection in marble, sound, and silence.
Celestine’s assistant guides me through the main corridor, heels clicking in rhythm with the echo of distant piano scales. I keep my breathing steady, clutching the visitor’s badge until the edge digs into my palm. My reflection in the glass wall looks foreign again—Serenity’s face, not mine. Softer, polished, a mask that glows faintly under the morning light.
The ring hums on my finger, a pulse that doesn’t belong to me. I pretend not to feel how it’s already leeching warmth from my skin.
When we reach the grand rehearsal hall, Celestine is already there. She doesn’t notice me at first—too bus
