Lidia froze. Like full-stop, time-just-skipped-a-beat froze.
She'd come down to the dining hall expecting a round of fake smiles and mind-numbing small talk. Maybe she'd snag a few crumbs of information between awkward silences and tight-lipped servants. Throw in a few sarcastic internal monologues about whoever decided lace trim on chairs was fashionable, and call it a morning.
But then she saw him.
A man sat in a carved, high-backed armchair near the sun-drenched window like he was some kind of wilted monument. Swallowed by blankets that looked heavy enough to crush him, despite the spring warmth wafting in through the open windows. His skin—gods, his skin—looked like fine china dunked in ghost stories. Pale, mottled, paper-thin. Veins like river maps traced blue beneath the surface, like even light was too much for him now.
