Chapter 1 - The Veins in the Stone
The bathroom was a masterpiece of cold, unyielding geometry.
Slabs of stark white marble lined the walls, cut through with aggressive, jagged veins of charcoal grey.
The light from the crystal chandelier in the hallway spilled across the polished floor, creating a surface that looked exactly like frozen water.
It was a room designed for people who did not bleed.
Elara sat completely broken in the center of it.
Her spine was curved, folded inward like a paper crane crushed in a fist.
The black and white fabric of her maid’s uniform, usually stiff and immaculate, hung off her frame in defeated, torn ribbons.
The left shoulder seam was ripped violently open.
It exposed a wide expanse of pale, shivering skin that she desperately tried to cover with her right hand.
Her fingers were cramped, the knuckles stark white with the effort of holding the torn fabric together.
She was entirely barefoot.
Her toes curled against the freezing marble, seeking warmth that the stone refused to give.
Just below her right knee, the skin was raised into a fierce, angry red swelling.
It pulsed with a quiet, violent rhythm.
A few inches from her heel lay a pristine white hotel-grade towel.
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Right in the center of the white terrycloth was a single, vivid red smudge.
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