The carriage didn't just stop; it screeched, the iron wheels biting into the gravel of Tharon Palace like a predator marking its territory.
Serene stepped out. Her spine was a rigid line of defiance, her movements possessed by a cold, sharp confidence that felt like wearing a suit of armor made of glass. Leaving and returning—the old Serene would have perished at the thought. But she knew better now. This hellhole wasn't just where she lived; it was the only soil where a weed like her could survive.
The moment she crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. The air didn't just feel cold; it felt thick, like breathing through wet wool. The servants didn't look at her; they scuttled past, their faces drained of color, eyes wide and vibrating with a primal, unspoken panic.
"Seems Roland beat me back," she whispered, her own voice sounding alien in the oppressive silence.
