The manor slept, but Elara could not. The corridors lay hushed and dark, portraits silent in their frames, enchanted candles reduced to glowing embers. Outside, snow continued to fall in soft, relentless waves, blanketing the gardens in pristine white silence. Inside her chamber, however, a violent storm raged.
Elara sat before the crackling fire, her silver gown loosened and draped loosely around her body, the fabric brushing teasingly against her hardened n*****s with every shallow breath. Her hands trembled in her lap. Her heart burned with unbearable heat. She pressed both palms to her chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm, whispering the same desperate promises into the dancing flames.
“I will resist… I will not falter… I will not betray Lyra.”
The vows melted like wax—fragile
