Her red hair fanned across the cold tiles like a spill of crimson wine, strikingly contrasting the black, curved horns that crowned her head. She hadn't changed clothes in days. The rich fabric of her once-regal attire clung to her like a memory of dignity, wrinkled, faded, and forgotten. Mirrors in the room were turned away or covered. She had no desire to see herself—not like this.
The bed told its own story: sheets twisted and stained with the salt of silent grief, the pillows still bearing the imprint of sleepless nights. Her room—her sanctuary—was in ruins. Scattered belongings, cracked vials of perfume, books left open at pages she couldn't recall. It wasn't just her room that had fallen apart.
It was her.
And the cause of this collapse had a name. A face. A presence.
Zark.
