She followed him.
The hallways of House D'Argente never creaked. No matter the hour or the season, the floors stayed polished to an impossible shine, the rugs too thick to betray a footstep, the air too carefully stilled to let anything echo. There was no wind, no warmth. No accidents. Just control in every thread and tile, wrapped around her like a leash no one spoke about.
The only sound now came from Daniel's steps ahead of herand the soft tap of her own shoes.
Ophelia kept her chin level and her spine straight, because anything less would be obvious. Because weakness, even the shape of it, was something Serathine would never name but always see.
