That night, the Nothingwood palace did not just sleep; it exhaled a heavy, stagnant silence that tasted of old stone and unchallenged authority. That was the intoxicating beauty of power. It didn't need to scream its presence or rattle its chains. Real power moved with the fluid grace of a predator, slipping through the cracks of certainty, existing in the blind spots of those who felt too safe to look behind them.
Mila closed the door to her chambers, the motion so fluid it seemed choreographed. The latch clicked, a sharp, final sound that severed her from the world of masks and curtsies. This was her sanctuary, a cage of gold and velvet where the monster could finally stretch its limbs. The air here was cloying, a thick perfume of jasmine and lavender designed to suffocate the metallic tang of her thoughts. Outside, the storm was no longer a guest; it was an intruder, clawing at the stone walls of Nothingwood.
Rain struck the glass in restless, frantic patterns.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
