The living room was a cathedral of silence. Light draped through the high arched windows, filtered by curtains the color of wilted roses. Every piece of furniture gleamed with polish, every candleholder seemed older than the soil outside, yet something about the space felt suffocating, as though the walls had been taught to listen.
Elara sat at the edge of a velvet chaise, legs crossed, her posture sharp enough to cut marble. She did not recline; reclining was for those who felt safe, and Elara never allowed herself to look defenseless. She let her gaze travel across the vast room, noting the chandeliers overhead crystal stars held hostage by gold chains and the paintings that lined the walls. Noble faces stared back at her with empty eyes, proud and severe. Their silence mocked her.
