Nevan
I left the dining hall before I did something I'd regret.
My boots struck the stone floor with a rhythm that matched the pounding in my skull as I climbed the staircase and moved down the corridor toward my chambers.
The portraits on the walls watched me pass, a generation of Wilders staring down with the same pale eyes that lived behind my mask.
I pushed through the door and went straight to the window, bracing both hands against the frame. The garden below was bathed in morning light, green and gold and peaceful, but it was a lie.
Everything about Wellspring was a lie wrapped in beauty.
The door opened quietly behind me, and Clyde's voice reached me.
"Are you alright?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I said listlessly.
"You don't look fine, Nevan."
"I said I'm fine, Clyde," I replied, trying not to sigh. I was getting irritated by his probing.
