The evening descended slowly upon the estate, and the quiet halls carried a different kind of silence than the one that had existed before the war, for this silence was not born of fear or rigid obedience but of exhaustion and reflection after too many nights stained by blood and fire.
Elara stood alone beside the tall window of Alessandro's study, the fading amber light of dusk slipping through the glass and falling softly across the pale skin of her wrist where the thin scar curved like a faint silver thread that refused to disappear.
Two lines of pain once carved there.
Now healed.
But not forgotten.
She traced it slowly with her fingers.
"Hmm."
A soft breath escaped her lips.
The memory arrived without invitation.
Cold stone ground.
Clashing voices.
The smell of smoke.
And the moment when survival demanded something darker than courage.
Her fingers pressed lightly against the scar.
"Ouch."
It did not truly hurt anymore.
