Eliza walked silently through the castle hallways, the echo of her footsteps resonating on the cold, damp stone. Dawn filtered through the stained glass windows, spilling crimson and golden flashes that seemed to set the floor ablaze with each step. The air smelled of iron, of extinguished firewood, of broken promises. There was something in the atmosphere that unsettled her... as if the walls were breathing, holding their breath before the inevitable.
She wore the dress that her head maiden had commissioned for her: a tight-fitting wine-colored velvet bodice, embroidered with golden threads that clung to her figure like a second skin, and a wide skirt of several layers that brushed the floor with a whisper of silk. The square neckline revealed the line of her neck, where faint marks from the brush of Lucian's fangs still remained. Every thread of the garment seemed to remember what had happened... and what she shouldn't have felt.
