The sun had barely begun to bleed through the heavy charcoal curtains of the villa when the door creaked open. Inside the black-and-shadowed master suite, the air was still thick with the scent of sandalwood and old rage.

Arohi’s eyes fluttered open. Her head felt like it had been cracked open, a dull, rhythmic throb echoing behind her temples. For a moment, the ceiling was a blur of dark grey. She moved her hand, and the rustle of heavy silk reminded her with a jolt of ice where she was. Or rather, what she had done.