Eiravyne retreated into the deepest shadows of her old bedchamber, turning the room into a silent, impenetrable sanctuary of her own ruin.
She refused the maids who knocked softly with trays of steaming broth and fresh linen.
She ignored the hesitant calls of the noble attendants who hovered in the corridor, terrified for their returned Duchess.
And, above all, she barred Karl.
After that first violent nightmare, when she had clung to his tunic mistaking him for his brother, she could not bear the sight of him.
Looking at his face was an agonizing torture, a cruel trick of blood that offered Urag's features and Urag's hair, only to shatter the illusion the moment his cold, bitter eyes met hers.
So she chose the darkness instead.
Days melted into a seamless, suffocating blur.
She spent her hours curled on the floor beside the bed, her cheek pressed against the cold velvet coverlet, clutching Urag's old scent to her chest like a dying lifeline.
