The fires in the great hall of Hellholt burned low, casting flickering shadows against the scorched stone walls. Sarya lounged on a couch of red silk, her bare feet propped against the armrest, a goblet of wine dangling from her fingers. The scent of burning cedar filled the air, masking the lingering stench of blood—fresh, not yet scrubbed from the floors.

"They should have known better," she murmured, swirling the wine lazily. "You do not come to Hellholt making demands."

Her paramour stood near the window, sharpening a dagger, his expression unreadable. Outside, the desert wind howled, sounding the distant wail of a grieving mother. Sarya only smiled, tilting her head toward the sound.

"Do you think she’ll try for revenge?" she asked, more amused than concerned. "Or will she simply waste away, like the rest?"