A few hours ago…
The council chamber still buzzed with the barbed laughter of Lord Rythor, and somewhere across the long table, Lord Cassar's voice flowed in honeyed threads of sarcasm. Yet Berith heard none of it. The vision..if it was a vision, it still clung to his senses like a second skin.
Berith gripped the edge of the carved ebony table so tightly the cold bit into his palms.
The scent of bergamot and burning wax. The swell of music from a string quartet. Light, warm and golden, pouring from chandeliers like honey over glass.
In the center of it all— Marcella.. in silver
And then the sound.
A tear..so vivid it felt like fabric had ripped across his skin. A flash of pale skin.
Gasps. Laughter like wolves in velvet. Marcella froze. The crowd swallowed her in a cruel tide.
And he had smiled and even smug.
The memory, or whatever it was, coiled in his chest like a hot, slick parasite. Wrong. Deep. Familiar.
"Your Grace?"
