In the Wing of the Rod, Katerina sits motionless on her bed, the silk of her dress crumpled, her gaze fixed upon the wall as though she could read her fate in its peeling paint. Shadows twitch where the candle gutters, shapes that whisper and shift like the ones that visit her dreams.

Her lips part, dry and soundless at first, then the words escape like an exhalation she’s been holding for years:

“The worst is still to come…”

And somewhere in the dark, something seems to sigh in answer.