The morning didn't arrive with a gentle sunrise; it broke over the mountains like a bruised fist. The sky was a turbid mix of slate grey and sickly violet, mirroring the exhaustion that had settled into my marrow. I stood in the center of the guest suite, the silver gown now a heap of discarded scales on the floor. In the harsh light of dawn, the mark on my chest was impossible to ignore. It was a perfect, raised circle of angry red flesh, an exact replica of the locket's silhouette. It throbbed with every heartbeat, a physical reminder that I had traded a piece of my soul for a few hours of deception.
I had barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the Hollow King's eyes—those stagnant pools of ancient malice—searching for a ghost in my reflection.
