A few of the nearer shadows detach from the walls. They crawl—low, insect-like—across the floor toward me, heads tilted, fingers scraping wood without sound. Their faces are half-formed, mouths open in silent questions.
I don’t flinch.
“I’ve seen you—I don’t know why—all my life,” I continue. My throat tightens, but I force the words out anyway. “You were the only family I knew in all those orphanages. The only ones who never left me alone in the dark. Why do you treat me like this?”
The woman in front of me trembles harder. Her face twists— suddenly, violently. The porcelain skin cracks like old paint. Her mouth stretches into something ugly, too wide, lips splitting at the corners. Eyes bleed ink down her cheeks.Rage pours off her in cold waves that make the air taste like rust.
She raises her hand—black-tipped fingers curled into claws—and lunges.
Fast.
Too fast.
I brace for the strike, for the rake of nails across my face, across the diamonds, across everything Drogo just claimed as his.
But it never lands.
From behind me, another shape surges forward—taller, thinner, wrapped in what looks like shredded hospital linen.No face I recognize, but the movement is protective, deliberate. It slams into the mourning woman with brutal force, shoving her back hard enough that she stumbles, heels scraping air that isn’t there.
The two ghosts collide in a silent explosion of frost and shadow.
Then chaos.
The room erupts.
Lights flicker—on, off, on—strobing so fast the walls seem to pulse. The temperature plunges until my breath explodes in thick white clouds. Ghosts whirl around me in manic spirals: some clawing at the air, others tearing at each other, limbs elongating into impossible shapes, mouths opening in soundless screams. Shadows slam into shadows. Frost races across every surface—mirror, vanity, floor—like living veins.Glass cracks in spiderwebs. The chandelier overhead swings wildly, crystals clinking like breaking teeth.
I close my eyes.
Hard.
Force them shut against the blizzard of movement andcold and rage.
The gun stays locked against my temple. My finger rests on the trigger—light, not pressing, but ready.
My other hand curls into a fist at my thigh, nails digging into palm until I feel the sting of blood.
I don’t move.
I don’t speak.
I just stand there in the center of the storm they’ve made, velvet gown whipping around my legs from the unnatural wind, diamonds glittering in the fractured light like tiny stars caught in ice.
Let them fight.
Let them tear each other apart.
I’ve carried their stories long enough.
If they want to end this tonight—here, in the bedroom where Drogo kissed me an hour ago and promised forever—then fine.
But I’m done begging.
Done bleeding for deadlines.
Done bowing.
The chaos roars louder—wind howling through cracks that shouldn’t exist, glass shattering somewhere behind me, cold so deep it burns.
