The door creaked open with a reluctant groan.
Marcella stepped inside, or rather, what remained of her room. Her boots crunched over splinters—wood, glass, the remnants of a mirror now scattered across the floor. The curtains had been torn down, the bedding ripped open, feathers from the pillow drifted. Her satchel lay slashed open in a corner.
She stood in the doorway; arms limp at her sides. Where was she supposed to sleep now?
The bed frame was cracked, tilted like a sinking ship. A chair had one leg broken and the other missing entirely.
A flicker of movement in the hallway.
Marcella didn't have to turn to know it was him.
"I figured your room wouldn't be spared," came Berith's voice behind her. Calm. Too calm. That familiar infuriating detachment that always made her want to scream or grab his face and shake some humanity back into it.
Berith stepped closer, "You can take my room," he said simply.
