Eleanor stood at the balcony's edge, the night sky's twinkling canvas reflecting in the deep cerulean pools of her eyes. The cold wind rustled her pale blue nightdress, and her long golden hair flowed gently behind her, its soft strands dancing in the moonlight.
As she grasped the concrete railing, her slender fingers trembled with agitation.
For five days, Morana's image haunted her. The goddess's silver eyes, so like her husband's... She recalled the way those eyes had lingered on her, heavy with malice and disdain.
With a frustrated sigh, Eleanor released her grip on the railing and wrapped her arms around herself. The wind howled in sympathy, its mournful cry echoing through the deserted streets below.
Her hatred for Morana seethed like a cauldron of boiling venom, its toxicity rotting her very soul. Yet, alongside this burning animosity, she felt a debilitating sense of vulnerability wash over her.
