Metheea left the study without a word.
Her footsteps echoed softly down the corridor, quick and uneven. The air felt heavy, too close, filled with the scent of ink and smoke that clung to her dress.
Her hands would not stop shaking. She told herself it was shame, but the heat spreading through her body did not feel like shame at all. It felt alive.
"Your Highness." Kalistra's voice called after her, quiet but urgent. "Wait."
Metheea quickened her pace. The corridor seemed endless, the light from the torches swaying and blurring around her. When she reached the turn that led to her chambers, she felt Kalistra's hand catch her arm.
The touch made her flinch. It was not painful in the way of a wound; it was sharper, deeper, as though every nerve beneath her skin had woken. She drew back with a gasp.
Kalistra froze, startled. "You're trembling. Did—?"
"No." Metheea's voice cracked. "I just need to be alone."
