The carriage lurched to a halt before the palace entrance, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the gravel. Mathias dismounted first, but the usual effortless grace was gone. His movements were mechanical, labored, as if he were hauling an invisible carcass upon his shoulders.
Olivia followed, adjusting her silk gloves with a chilling composure. She reached out and took his arm, her grip tightening with a deceptive softness, seeking the familiar anchor of his strength. But the moment they stepped into the Grand Hall, she felt it—a faint, rhythmic tremor rippling through his frame. His breath came in ragged, heavy heaves, as though he were choking on a scent no one else could smell.
"Mathias?" she whispered, drawing to a halt. In the flickering amber glow of the candelabras, his face looked deathly pale. "Your breathing… are you alright?"
He didn't look at her. His gaze remained anchored to a hollow point on the floor. "I'm fine, Olivia. Just exhaustion."
