"When the serpent of fire meets the mirror of sorrow, thou shalt stand at the edge of two fates: one of ruin, one of release."
Florian murmured the words under his breath, his voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness. The syllables lingered like smoke, curling and fading into the air.
Above him, his butterflies drifted lazily through the dim light—soft, blue glimmers in the dark. They fluttered around the chandelier, wings catching faint moonlight seeping through the tall windows. Beautiful. Innocent. Unaware.
They looked so peaceful.
So clueless to the storm clawing at their master's chest.
Florian lay sprawled across the silken sheets of his bed—the bed that once belonged to the late queen. Even the thought of that felt strange.
Wrong.
