The marble corridors of the castle were bathed in a soft, ethereal morning light, casting long golden beams across the polished stone floors.
I walked softly beside Draven, my small hand tucked tightly into the crook of his broad elbow. The silence surrounding us was absolute, broken only by the quiet rustle of my skirts and the steady, heavy thud of his boots against the floor.
It was too quiet. Too calm.
A sharp, cold pang of anxiety tightened in my chest. After everything we had been through—the blood, the fire, the screaming ghosts of the past, and the terrifying abyss—this tranquil morning felt almost fragile. It felt like a dream crafted of spun glass, so breathtakingly perfect that a single loud breath might shatter it into a thousand jagged pieces. I squeezed his arm harder, my knuckles turning white, my gaze darting nervously to the shadows in the corners of the grand hallway, half-expecting Edward's ghastly face to materialize out of the dark.
