The snow was still falling when they passed through the castle gates, but the silence was different.
There were no guards.
There were no servants.
Only the wind—and the distant sound of wood creaking in the cold.
Paraphal's mansion felt alive, as if the building itself had witnessed everything that had happened there. The walls exuded a bittersweet smell of cheap incense and old blood. The corridors were long and cold, and the echo of Ester and Damon's footsteps mingled with the pent-up breath of those who saw them.
The maids were there.
Dozens of them, standing like statues, on the steps, in the doorways, in the shadows.
None dared speak.
They simply watched the two of them—the murderers, the invaders, the liberators.
