The day of the VIP visitor arrived not with a bang, but with a quiet, chilling statement from Rulien.
He found her in the antechamber, where she was practicing the art of the tea ceremony, a lesson in grace and stillness he had insisted she master. She had not seen Senna since her return from the Dead Ward. The fiery redhead had been moved to a different section of the wing, a silent, hollowed-out ghost Clara was no longer permitted to see. The bargain had been kept, but the price was a constant, aching wound in Clara's soul.
"Your education," Rulien announced, his voice a silken purr that made the fine hairs on her arms stand on end, "is complete."
Clara looked up at him, her hands frozen around the small, porcelain cup. His pale, glacial eyes held a look she had never seen before. It was the look of a master craftsman appraising his finished, perfect creation. It was a look of profound, terrifying pride.
