The candle on Verona's nightstand flickered. She sat propped up against the pillows, a leather-bound ledger resting ignored on her lap. Her mind wasn't on fabric weights or guest lists tonight. Instead, it was miles away, deep in the dark, soot-choked shafts of the Vernhardt silver mines.
She had tried to tell herself that she was an Aldenar now, that the blood in her veins was the only thing connecting her to that crumbling Southern estate. She had scrubbed the dust of the manor from her skin and replaced the Vernhardt crest with the fierce Wolf of the North. But as she looked at Mina every day, the truth gnawed at her like a persistent hunger.
Her former "family" had built their opulence on the broken backs and branded skin of people like Mina. Every silk gown Marien wore, every vintage wine the Duke poured, was paid for by the misery of men and women who were treated as less than human.
