The heavy oak doors of the dining hall swung open with a groan that seemed to announce our arrival before we could even take a step.
I led the procession, the rhythmic click of my heels against the polished stone echoing like a slow-beating heart.
I moved with the slow, rhythmic grace of a queen returning to her court. My hair, usually a wild crow black crown, was gathered into a deceptively neat bun, pinned precisely with small, shimmering clips that caught the morning light. It gave me the air of a disciplined noblewoman, though the golden fire in my eyes told a far more predatory story.
I had traded the midnight silk of the bed for a dress that clung to my body like a second skin. It wasn't tight enough to restrict my breath—I needed every bit of air to savor the tension—but it traced the swell of my breasts and the dangerous curve of my hips with agonizing clarity. A sheer, gossamer scarf dangled from my elbows, trailing behind me like a lingering mist as I walked.
