The dawn over the Blackfang Stronghold did not bring the warmth of the sun; it brought the suffocating weight of a new reality. The air in the Western Wing was thin and tasted of frost, but for Gwen, the atmosphere inside the fortress was far more lethal.
She stood before a tall, tarnished mirror, dressed in the coarse, dark linen of a castle servant. The fabric scratched at her skin, a constant reminder of her fallen status. Her hair, once a vibrant crown of golden fire, was now a ghostly, translucent white—the color of a dying star. She looked like a specter, a remnant of a war that everyone was desperate to forget.
A sharp knock at the door made her flinch. It wasn't a request; it was a summons.
"Move it, lab-rat," a guard barked from the other side. "The King is awake. And the High Advisor has set your schedule."
