The corridor air felt colder than it should have. A chill licked against damp skin beneath Camille’s robe. She kept her eyes forward. Her steps were deliberate, as though composure could be rebuilt by posture alone. Each knot of the sash had been tied too tight. The fabric cut against her ribs, betraying her trembling hands.

  Halfway down the hall, she stopped. Genevra was already there. The older woman leaned against the archway. Arms folded, her gown draped like dusk over marble. Her head tilted the moment Camille appeared. Gaze moving from her throat to her robe’s uneven fold. To the faint redness still blooming across her chest.

  “Well,” Genevra said softly. The corners of her mouth curved. “The broken crown has learned what it means to smolder.”

  Camille froze. A retort rose, choking in her throat.

  Genevra stepped forward. Her perfume trailed like memory. Her eyes never leaving Camille’s. “Did you think it wouldn’t show? That you could leave the Fme’s chamber without ash clinging to your skin?”

  Camille clenched her fists. Nails bit her palms.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  A ugh, low and knowing.

  “You don’t have to.”

  Genevra circled her. The faint rustle of fabric brushed Camille’s bare arm as she passed.

  “I can see it. Pride cracked. Fire tasted. And now…” She leaned close. Her lips almost at Camille’s ear.

  “…now you’ll spend every hour pretending you didn’t want it.”

  Camille’s breath hitched. Fury and shame knotted tight.

  “I won’t be undone like that again.”

  Genevra smiled wider. Stepping back, her eyes gleamed with cruel amusement.

  “Oh, Camille. That’s the sweetest lie of all. Once you’ve burned, you always return to the fme.”

  She turned, gliding down the corridor without waiting for an answer. Her shadow stretched long in the torchlight.

  Camille stood rooted. Her pulse raced. The echo of the Mistress still inside her. The sting of Genevra’s words sealing it. For the first time since she entered the estate, she felt not powerful. She felt seen.