The cold air of the stone corridors barely registered against Marcella's skin as she stormed through the church, her skirts snapping at her heels like angry banners caught in a storm.
Candles flickered weakly along the walls, their pale glow failing to touch the blackness roiling in her chest. It was a darkness older than grief--raw, hungry, and relentless.
Marcella didn't slow.
Not when the servants bowed their heads in deference.
Not when the guards exchanged uneasy glances at her hurried steps.
Her fingers itched with a fury so fierce it threatened to consume her.
Vessel.
Gate.
Consummation.
Each word her father had spat was a nail driven deeper into her spine, a chain tightening around her soul.
When Marcella reached the antechamber near the chapel, she didn't bother knocking. The heavy oak door groaned as she shoved it open.
