The heavy, suffocating steam of the previous night had long vanished, replaced by the weak, gray light of a tense imperial dawn.
Evangeline stood before the tall, ornate mirror, the silk of her robe pooling around her waist as she carefully unraveled the fresh gauze around her shoulder. Her fingers paused. She touched her skin, her breath catching slightly as her gaze locked onto the mirror. The jagged, burning wound from the poison was gone. In its place was nothing but smooth, unblemished skin—healed completely within a single night.
Her fingers lingered on her shoulder, tracing the space where the pain had been, before her dark eyes slowly drifted away from her reflection. She scanned the quiet expanse of the room until her gaze landed on the sofa.
There he sat. Silver.
