The air in Nancy's cramped, firelit room clung to me like a fever, heavy with the musk of melted wax, smoke, and unspoken truths. The fire snapped in the hearth, its flames lashing out as though they too wanted to be free of the suffocating weight pressing in on us. Shadows twisted across the walls, alive, restless—mocking the silence between every breath.
Winter sat at my side, rigid as stone, her pale fingers knotted so tightly in her lap they looked carved from ice. I knew that storm in her cold blue eyes; I'd seen it a thousand times. Fury sharpening against fear. Vengeance screaming for release. But the fear—the fragile sliver she never let anyone else glimpse—she saved that for me.
Across from us, Nancy stood with her usual composure, a sly smile curling like smoke at the edges of her mouth. Her fingers tapped against the arm of her chair in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Tick. Tick. Tick. It didn't sound like impatience—it sounded like a countdown.
