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A room was steeped in quiet melancholy.
Fuchsia walls with gold linings framed the scene, their once-vivid charm muted by the dim light filtering through the heavy curtains.
On the bedside table, a vase of lavenders stood vigil, their soft fragrance mingling with the stillness.
The bed was a grand thing, draped with silken sheets and embroidered covers fit for royalty. But it seemed too large, too empty, save for the figure lying motionless upon it.
Amaranthe sat beside the bed, her expression a tangled web of sorrow and guilt.
The faint creak of the chair beneath her was the only sound in the room. Her green eyes, usually so sharp and resolute, now stared at Cheska with an unfamiliar softness— one laced with helplessness.
Cheska lay there, her face peaceful yet unnervingly still, as if trapped in a sleep she might never wake from.
A week had passed.
