The room was silent, far too silent, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. I sat there, still as stone, the weight of my own thoughts pressing heavier than the ornate velvet curtains draping the windows. It was strange just moments ago, I had been trembling at the memory of death, of the maid's lifeless body, of blood pooling like dark wine beneath shackled wrists. For a second, it was unbearable, terrifying enough to make my skin crawl.
But now?
Now it was nothing.
The fear slipped from me like water running off silk. Coldness seeped in its place, not born of courage, but of indifference. I blinked, staring down at my pale hands Seraphine's hands so slender and elegant, yet marked with sins I could not claim as my own. Or perhaps they were mine now, etched into me because I was here, living in her body.
The thought twisted inside me: Was I still alive? Or was I only a shadow grafted onto another woman's soul?
