The snow had thickened overnight, muffling the city in white silence. The streets gleamed faintly under lamplight, the air dense with frost and rumor.
Inside The Nest, the fire burned low.
Serena woke to the soft hiss of wind against the windows, the scent of ash and smoke lingering in the air. For a moment, she forgot where she was — until she turned and saw Charlton's coat draped over the chair, the faint trace of his cologne on the air.
The events of yesterday unfolded in her memory: the Parliament, the revelation, the quiet victory.
It was over — or at least, she wanted to believe it was.
Charlton had risen again. The Cross name would crumble under the weight of his truth.
And yet, as she sat up, pulling the blanket tighter around her, Serena felt something gnawing beneath the relief — a tremor, soft but insistent, like the hush before a storm.
It was too quiet.
