"So, you've chosen a life of torment, then?" Eryk leaned against the doorframe of Elara's chamber, watching as she brushed her hair.
"I'm sorry… I couldn't deliver your greetings to Mother. Turns out, I'm afraid of heights."
"So, what's the fuss? You could've just been that old bastard's plaything." Eryk scoffed.
"This brothel is farther than Sir Okland's estate. I thought I'd have more room to breathe away from this wretched family."
With a dull expression, Elara rose and began packing her belongings. Her grip was so tight, so seething with anger, that she nearly shattered the delicate makeup tools in her hands.
"Is that what you think? You should just—"
"Just die?" Elara shoved whatever she was holding into the bag and turned on him. "Why should I die? What crime did I commit to deserve such judgment?" Her voice rose, shaking with fury, her face flushed, her breath ragged.
