Back in my bedchamber, I waited.
The heavy fabric of my gown lay around me, its folds closing in like the petals of a flower shrouded against the dark.
“Patience,” I whispered to the restless spirit within me.
“For Amir, you must be patient.”
Time trickled by, each second stretching into a cruel eternity.I paced back and forth, my breath shallow, my pulse hammering against my ribs.The wooden floor beneath me groaned as though it strained under the weight of my thoughts.
Then—silence.
A profound, eerie stillness settled over the house, a hush so absolute it felt as if the world held its breath.
This was it.
With cautious steps, I slipped from my chamber, my fingers brushing along the cool banister as I descended.The touch anchored me in a sea of uncertainty.
The smoking parlor loomed before me, its door a silent sentinel guarding the truth of my actions.
I pressed my ear against the polished wood, my breath shallow, my heart a tireless drumbeat.
Nothing.
No murmurs.No shifting movements.
Just silence.
A tentative tap of my fingertips against the door yielded no response.Emboldened, I curled my fingers around the handle and opened it.
And there they were.
My father.Lord Winston.
Slumped across the chairs, tangled in their limbs, oblivious.
The brandy had done its work.
Their chests rose and fell in a slow cadence—the breathing of men too deep in the clutches of an enchanted slumber to dream, conspire, or stop me.
Relief surged through me, but I couldn’t bask in triumph.Not yet.
There was still so much to do.
Clutching a torch, its flame flickering in time with the urgency pounding in my veins, I moved.
Toward the dungeon.
Toward Amir.
The corridors twisted and darkened as I descended, the air growing colder and heavier.The shadows stretched toward me like hungry hands, reaching and grasping.
But my determination flamed brighter.
Brighter than the fear.Brighter than the dark.
And no shadow could quench the fire that raged within me now.
“Amir.”
