She turned from the stench of the pits, her heels once again striking the stone with a rhythmic, murderous intent. As she ascended from the subterranean dark, the air of the upper palace felt thin and fragile. The servants in the corridors froze, their breath hitching in a collective gasp. They pressed themselves against the tapestries like shadows, their eyes wide with a primal terror as they took in the specter before them.
Evangeline was a vision of visceral ruin. Her hands were gloved in a thick, drying crimson that had begun to crack at the knuckles. Splatters of Kayo's life-blood peppered her porcelain face like dark, macabre freckles, and the hem of her heavy silk gown was sodden with the filth and gore of the cell floor, dragging behind her like a funeral shroud.
She didn't glance at them. She moved with the singular focus of a storm toward the King's private chambers.
