"Secrets rot faster than corpses. And when this one splits open, I will make certain the stench ruins them all."
The chamber was silent but for the steady scrape of Seraphine's pen. Ink pooled at the edge of the parchment, thick, tar-black staining the edge like rot seeping into wood. A single drop slid down the corner, splitting into a jagged trail that mirrored the pressure tightening in her chest. She set the quill aside with precision. Every motion deliberates. Controlled. A ritual of restraint. Because if she faltered now, if she so much as sighed, the fury simmering beneath her skin would bleed into the air like venom, and nothing in the room would survive it.
