Two days later.
Harriet was back on her feet, moving with slow, deliberate steps through her chamber. Her body still ached—deep, dragging pains that pulsed in time with her heartbeat—but she could feel herself recovering faster than should have been possible. The physical wounds were healing; the rest of her… was another matter entirely.
Her eyes were flat. Lifeless.
Xeera, her ever-attentive maid, flitted about the room, helping her dress. She spoke in gentle tones, recounting bits of meaningless chatter, stories from the kitchen staff, small pieces of gossip—anything to fill the air with something other than silence. But Harriet gave no sign she heard. It was as if Xeera's words dissolved before they could reach her.
Harriet's gaze stayed locked on the tall mirror before her. She studied the image staring back—not with vanity, but with a dull, clinical detachment, as if she were looking at someone else entirely.
