Liora's words hung in the air long after she had slipped away, a chilling counterpoint to the faint, sweet scent of the white rose still clutched in my hand. Evelyne is planning something. It was a confirmation of the unease that had been coiling in my gut since my confrontation in the hall. The rose was no longer a mysterious gift; it was a marker. A warning. A declaration that I was being watched.
I barely slept that night, the system's cold, analytical voice and Liora's frightened whispers warring in my mind. All pieces are now hostile. Evelyne is planning something. The two statements merged into a single, undeniable truth: the game was afoot, and I was the designated prey.
The next morning, the tension in the estate was palpable. My small victory in the west wing had not won me loyalty; it had simply made me a more dangerous unknown. They were waiting to see which way the wind would blow, and I was the storm they feared.
