The heavy, iron-bound doors groaned inward, a deep, resonant sound that felt less like a mechanical hinge and more like the palace itself was exhaling. As the gap widened, the air in the room hit me—a rush of cloying, humid heat, the smell of roasted root vegetables, and the suffocating, stale familiarity of a life I had been trying to outrun for lifetimes.
They were all there, arranged in the grand dining hall like pieces on a board game they had already decided the outcome of.
Adela sat at the head of the ancient, gnarled oak table. She was a relic carved from mountain stone, her posture unnaturally perfect, her presence dominating the room without her having to move a muscle. She watched me with a tired, clinical detachment, her eyes devoid of warmth, as if I were nothing more than a
