I slowly pulled back, sitting up on the edge of the plush canopy bed as the heavy silence of the chamber pressed down on my chest. Outside, the clear night sky had suddenly yielded to a dark, heavy downpour. Large rain droplets beat furiously against the tall glass windowpanes, mirroring the chaotic storm raging inside my mind.
The weight of it all—the realization that my past life's insatiable love for dark, tragic novels had somehow codified this horrific world into existence—threatened to suffocate me. It was my fault. The weeping women at the black gates, the bloody execution orders, Draven's hidden torment... all of it stemmed from my passive, inquisitive consumption of their suffering.
Unable to stay trapped within the four walls of the bedroom, I stood up. I slipped out of the chamber, my bare feet moving silently down the dimly lit stone corridors, through the grand foyer, and out into the vast front courtyard of the mansion.
