(GRIFFIN)
The ceiling above me gleams with the intricate work of gold and silver. Smooth marble tiles stretch across the floor, cold and pristine, reflecting the ornate carvings in the vaulted ceiling. My bed, massive, heavy with carved posts and embroidered silks, feels like a cage tonight. Too soft. Too stiff. Too foreign.
This room is fit for a king, the king that I supposedly am.
But it may as well be a prison.
I roll onto my side, staring at the balcony doors, the heavy velvet curtains drawn back to let the night in. The palace hums quietly around me, air moving through vents, the faintest echoes of distant guards changing shifts. It's supposed to be safe here. Untouchable.
Instead, the walls feel like they're closing in.
