Talking with blades

Mireilla lay on the edge of the massive bed, not under the covers, but atop them—as if too much comfort might swallow her whole.

The mattress was too soft. The air too still. The silence too curated.

She had grown up learning that even quiet came with price tags. And this one felt… steep.

The suite around her was all pale opal and woven light—walls that pulsed with barely-contained enchantments, surfaces that didn't just gleam, but glowed, gently reflecting the aether that laced the air like perfume. It was all beautiful. So beautiful, in fact, it unsettled her more than a blade at her back.

This wasn't a place meant for someone like her.

And yet here she was.

'Maybe that's why it feels like walking inside someone else's skin.'