The corridor emptied behind her, the last echoes of her voice dissolving into the quiet. The air still smelled faintly of ozone and dust, but outside—beyond the carved archway—the day had already softened. The lamps along the terrace were starting to burn low, their light trembling against the mist that hung over the gardens.
Priscilla stepped into it slowly, drawing her first full breath since the confrontation. The air was cool, crisp with the scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen. It filled her lungs, clearing the metallic taste that had lingered there.
Her body ached. Her sleeve was torn. Her ribs protested with every inhale. But she walked anyway. Each step across the stone terrace felt lighter than the last, even as her thoughts grew heavier.
That fire was still there—burning low now, coiled deep beneath her ribs. It refused to fade, pulsing quietly with every heartbeat.
What was it?
