¬ Paloma
The King's hair slid through my fingers like spun silver. Fine and thin. The texture of age and decay. I had once kept a mortal pet whose hair had felt much the same in its final years.
Brittle, delicate, and yielded to the slightest pressure.
I had snapped that pet's neck when he'd grown too feeble to amuse me.
The memory of it stirred a pleasant warmth.
This one still had his uses.
The chamber was dark save for the lamps faintly flickering at the corners of the space. Shadows pooled in the corners like obedient servants, and the heavy drapes had been drawn tight over the windows. I preferred it this way. Darkness suited my mood. Darkness made mortals forget themselves.
