Rain had begun to fall in slow, rhythmic sheets against the high glass panes, tapping like patient fingers across the stained windows of the tower. Thunder murmured in the far distance—soft, like the purring of some vast, slumbering creature. Inside the chamber, it was quiet. Warm, even.
A fire crackled low in the hearth, its glow casting molten gold across polished floors and tapestries stitched in the deep reds and blacks of old vampiric heraldry.
Selira knelt upon the furs by the fire, her legs folded neatly beneath her. She was still, silent. Her linen gown clung to her body from the mist outside, damp at the hem, thin enough to be modest only in theory. Her black hair, tangled from wind and sweat, fell in wet ringlets against her collarbone. The old collar—iron and tight-fitting—rested cold and absolute at her throat.
She barely felt it anymore. It was like skin.
The door creaked open behind her. She didn't turn.
She knew the steps by heart.
