While the bells of Nevareth sang of unions and gods, the air inside the Virelya guest wing tasted of copper and ozone.
The room was not being dismantled; it was being murdered.
Bianca Virelya, the woman the court praised for her willow-like grace and porcelain composure, was a smudge of wreckage against the silk wallpaper.
She didn't scream with the calculated pitch of a lady in distress; she howled, a raw, animalistic sound that tore at the back of her throat.
A vase of priceless sky-glass, a gift from the Emperor's own collection three winters ago, whirled through the air. It hit the far wall with a sound like a dying star, shattering into a thousand jagged diamonds that rained down onto the rug.
Bianca didn't stop to watch it fall. She lunged for the tapestries, her manicured nails digging into the heavy, silver-threaded weave. With a guttural snarl, she ripped them from the stone, the sound of tearing fabric echoing the frantic rhythm of her heart.
