The morning sun over the imperial city did not rise with its usual golden grace; to Lady Sera of House Thorne, it rose like a giant, judgmental eye, casting a harsh, unforgiving light on the ruins of her dignity.
She lay buried beneath four layers of silk duvets, her chestnut hair a tangled nest of despair. Every time she breathed, she smelled it, the faint, lingering scent of cedar, rain, and old iron that belonged to the General's quarters. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the phantom pressure of his cold, unyielding lips against hers, followed by that soul-crushing, monolithic silence.
"I am moving to the Northern Wastes," Sera muffled into her pillow, her voice a hollow croak. "I will become a hermit. I will talk to mountain goats. Mountain goats do not have dark, judging eyes. They do not freeze like statues when you offer them your soul."
