The Seventh Life Of The Soulbound Villainess
The kind of breathing she would never allow in front of anyone, which is why she is grateful, as she is every morning, that she sleeps alone.
The room assembles itself around her as her pulse slows. White stone walls carved with mana-sigils that glow faintly silver in the dark. A window draped in pale curtains, the sky beyond it still the deep blue of hours before dawn. A single candle on the writing desk she forgot to extinguish, burned almost to nothing now, throwing thin orange light across the floor. Her robes — white silk, silver-edged, folded precisely the night before — waiting on the chair beside the wardrobe.
Everything in its place.