Delilah didn't step further into the atelier.
She stood at the threshold instead, framed by the soft spill of golden light that poured in behind her like the last sliver of a dying sun. The glow outlined her figure like a portrait left untouched by time. Her once ink-black hair, now a dignified silver, was twisted into an impeccable updo—each strand locked in place with the kind of discipline that came from decades of control.
Her uniform was flawless, dark and crisp, the high collar buttoned to perfection. A symbol of her station. A warning not to underestimate her.
But even from across the room, Drizelous noticed the slight tremble in her hands—delicate fingers clasped too tightly in front of her to steady the shake. An elegant attempt to conceal unease.
Her eyes, though?
They betrayed everything.
'That look again…'
