In Dashylle's private island, silence did not feel peaceful—it felt like a verdict.
A woman lay back against the cold leather couch, her head tilted toward the ceiling as the metallic click of locks echoed through the room. One by one, the guards sealed her in. The sound traveled through her chest, settling deep in her bones. Red lights blinked from every corner—CCTVs, too many of them, watching her breathe, watching her exist.
Her jaw tightened until it ached.
The accusation still rang in her ears. The doubt. The way he had looked at her—like she was already guilty.
"I am Solene Thalindra!" she suddenly shouted, pushing herself upright, her voice cracking as it tore through the room. "I love archery, for hell's sake—but why the hell are you isolating me here?!"
Her throat burned. Her chest rose and fell violently as frustration, betrayal, and something dangerously close to heartbreak fueled her words.
"Shut up."
The voice came from nowhere—and everywhere.
Solene flinched.
