[Chapter End—A Scene from the Novel Lavinia Transmigrated Into]
[Unknown POV—The Original "Lavinia"]
The garden was quiet.
Too quiet.
Dusk had spilled across the palace in violet shadows, painting the marble statues in hues of mourning. The moon hung low, swollen with secrets, watching like a silent witness. A cold breeze danced through the lavender bushes, their silver-tipped leaves rustling like whispered warnings.
And Lavinia?
She was dying.
She lay sprawled on the dewy grass, her once-rosy lips now trembling with each shallow breath, crimson blooming at the corner of her mouth like a cruel flower. Her fingers clawed weakly at the earth beneath her, trying—failing—to hold on.
"…Why…?" She rasped, her voice little more than a broken thread.
Across from her, Caelum stood frozen.
His face—always unreadable, always composed—now looked carved from marble, but not the calm kind. The cracked kind. The kind that's about to shatter.
