The sky above Samera never stayed the same for long. One moment it gleamed a gentle lavender, the next it churned with storm-brushed green. Manon no longer noticed. Time passed strangely here, and the seasons sang different tunes than they had in her world. What mattered more than sunlight or shadow was the rhythm of Rashien's moods. And today, the rhythm was dissonant.
She stood still as a statue on the marble balcony of a tower that shouldn't exist—spiraling up from the heart of a blackwater lake, its walls made from dreams petrified into stone. Her bare feet were numb from the chill of the tiles, but she didn't move. If she moved, he would notice.
Rashien liked movement. Movement drew his attention. And his attention was… volatile.
"Manon," came the voice. It lilted from nowhere and everywhere, soft and frayed, like silk dragged through blood. "You're hiding in plain sight again. How quaint."
