The Valemont estate was too silent.
Marcella slipped from her chambers long after the household had settled into the hush of slumber.
No maids bustling through corridors.
No guards clinking armor outside her door.
Only the muted beat of her own heart as she clutched the ancient tome Evelyne, tight to her chest. Her slippers made no sound over the cold marble floors.
The corridors stretched ahead of her. Moonlight pooled through the windows, silvering the floors.
Marcella had no choice. She could not sit back and wait to be shackled.
She made her way to the old prayer room at the western wing, long abandoned after a fire had scorched part of it years ago. No one went there anymore.
Perfect.
The heavy wooden doors groaned as she pushed them open. Inside, the once-grand chapel stood in ruin — blackened beams, cracked stone, and wild ivy that crept through shattered glass. The altar was half-collapsed. Dust and ash coated everything.
But there was space.
And silence.
