The pale morning light crept through the tall windows of the Snow Manor, scattering across the floors in a cool haze. The air was still, carrying only the faint hum of the wind brushing against the glass. Nicole sat near the window, her brush moving slowly across a stretched canvas.
She had been awake since before dawn, her hand painting shapes she barely recognized a haze of silver and red, streaks of light piercing through shadow. Her thoughts drifted like ghosts. Every stroke seemed to pull her back to the night before, to the echoes that still clung to her mind.
The sound of the dungeon door slamming — the cries, the smell of blood, the sound of his voice.
She swallowed hard and forced the brush forward again, the motion mechanical, desperate to drown the memory in color.
Then came the quiet creak of the door behind her.
She froze.
