The return wasn't a journey; it was a slow crawl back into a casket. From the moment Roland's fingers had locked around her wrist, Serene's mind ceased to be her own. It became a cramped cell where every thought bled out into one name: Olivia. She didn't know if the girl was still drawing breath or if she was being systematically dismantled by the same shadows that had hollowed out Serene's soul.
As her boots hit the cold stone path leading to Tharon Palace, the very chemistry of the air changed. It tasted of metallic rust and old, dried blood—the familiar scent of a personal hell she knew by heart.
"Welcome home, Duchess of Tharon."
Roland's voice slid from behind her, a hiss heavy with the kind of expectant triumph that made her skin want to turn inside out. He was waiting for it—the frantic struggle, the jagged breath, the sobbing pleas for mercy that usually fed his monstrous ego. He lived for the way her shoulders used to shake.
But Serene didn't flinch.
