By order of a mute servant, Sérenya was led through a long vaulted corridor, the walls lined with portraits of women.
All queens of Amayélé.
None of them smiled.
"They were beautiful, strong, alone."
"And dead too soon."
Kamintha walked at her side, like a loyal shadow.
"Look closely, Sérenya. This is where faces are buried, before the bodies."
She stopped before a painting. A woman with features much like Sérenya's. Brown skin, proud neck, distant gaze.
"This one? She came from the island too."
"Tsaravina?"
"Yes. She too wore the lily. She too stood tall, to the end."
Sérenya clenched her fists.
"Then I won't be a painting. I'll be a storm."