The chamber was silent but for the faint crackle of the hearth fire. Shadows stretched long against the stone walls, their shapes restless, as though eager to escape the weight of what lingered in the room.
On the great chair at the center, Yakim sat rigid, his back unnaturally straight, his eyes fixed unblinking on the woman standing before him. His breaths were shallow, his chest rising and falling with strained rhythm, but his hands, his legs, all useless.
Seren smiled.
She circled him slowly, the crimson silk of her gown whispering against the flagstones. Her hair, dark as a raven's wing, gleamed in the firelight as she leaned close enough to breathe in the faint scent of ash and sickness that clung to him.
