The silence of the room had become a physical weight, pressing down on Layla's lungs until each breath felt shallow and insufficient. The immense bed mocked her, a continent of solitude. The dancing auroras outside the window-glass were beautiful, but they were a painting she couldn't touch, a show meant for someone else.
She needed air that didn't taste of old magic and looming threat. She needed to see the sky, even a strange one, without a marble ceiling.
The wall of glass was seamless, with no visible handle. She pressed her palm against the cool surface, feeling a faint, resonant hum. "Open," she whispered, feeling foolish.
Nothing.
She exhaled in frustration, her breath fogging the glass, skin prickling as if disturbed by static. As the mist cleared, a subtle pattern of light glo
