Lord Rhaegal made his way down the corridor toward his quarters. The servant passing by bowed deeply as he walked past, but Rhaegal didn't acknowledge them. His eyes were distant, heavy with thought.
He reached his door, grasped the knob, and turned it. The door opened with a soft creak.
As he stepped inside, a wave of scent greeted him—fresh flowers, mingled with the sharp, clean scent of detergents. He paused. The room… was spotless. The wooden floors gleamed under the light. The shelves had been dusted to a shine. The couch looked almost new. It was too perfect. The quaters glistened under the lamp light.
Then his eyes landed on the centerpiece of the room: a vase of tulips—bright, colorful, delicate.
He froze.
A frown crept across his face as he stared at the flowers. He wasn't fond of them. Not because he hated beauty… but because it never belonged to him. Flowers were soft, fragile. They symbolized peace. And he… was anything but peaceful.
