The dawn did not break over Oakhaven. It bled.
Valeria woke up with a pounding headache that throbbed behind her eyes. The champagne from Duke Garius's private cellar had tasted like pure victory the night before. This morning it tasted like a severe tactical error. She lay in her large four-poster bed and stared at the ceiling of the new stone manor. The room was bathed in a strange and unsettling light. It was not the crisp white of a northern morning. It was not the verdant green of the World Tree. It was a bruised and sickly purple.
She sat up and rubbed her temples. The air in her bedroom felt incredibly heavy. It carried a metallic tang that made the roots of her teeth ache.
She threw off the heavy wool blankets and walked to the window.
