The night did not feel like night.
No stars. No dreams. Just silence stretched too thin, like skin pulled over a broken drum. The sky above Berkimhum Castle didn't blink or breathe—it just hung, taut and quiet, as though the world itself feared shattering under the wrong thought.
Inside the throne hall, torches hissed in their sconces. The flames, once proud, now stuttered as if choking on the weight of sleepless air. Walls that once echoed with laughter and music now pressed inward like they too were holding their breath.
At the castle's heart, anxiety curled into every corridor. The war council had long adjourned. Servants whispered in shadows, prayers mouthed with cracked lips. Some wept. Others simply 'waited'—for sleep, for madness, for the unraveling to complete its circle.
No one dreamed.
No one rested.
Everyone was awake.
Claire lay in Atlas's bed.
She hadn't meant to.
