Two days had passed.
The Palace of Death had never felt so quiet.
Every corridor, every black marble hall, every chamber lined with screaming-skull candelabras was empty except for the faint blue flames that burned without heat. The black roses on the walls had stopped dripping their oily residue. The ancient tapestries showed the same faded image of Queen Thistle on her root-throne, but now the thorns looked dull, lifeless. The air carried only the sweet-rot scent and the metallic tang of fresh blood that never stopped.
Queen Thistle never left Ren's side.
