The dungeons beneath the palace were forever steeped in cold, but tonight the chill carried teeth. It gnawed at the skin and settled into the bones, a creeping reminder of the deaths that had so recently stained Nevareth's name... Duke Cassius laid low, the demon-touched bodies dragged from shadowed corridors, the ever-tightening shroud of fear and violence frosting the city like rime upon glass.
Or perhaps the cold had a more singular source.
Vetra.
She descended the narrow stone stair in unhurried grace, silver robes whispering softly against ancient walls worn smooth by centuries of screams.
Torchlight slid across her pale features, catching on the calm precision of her expression, serene, immaculate, as distant as a winter dawn that promises nothing but more cold.
Guards straightened and bowed as she passed, their reverence instinctive, fearful. She did not acknowledge them. Tools did not require recognition. They existed to be used, and discarded when dulled.
