The air hung thick and cold, pressing in like the heavy, dark leather of the hood pulled low over her head. Sarah's eyes, a pale, unsettling gold in the dim light, surveyed the surroundings with an intensity that seemed to drink the shadows. Her skin, usually flushed with the warmth of a queen's halls, looked almost porcelain under the strange, damp glow reflecting off the slick material of her cloak. Thirty-nine years had hardened the edges of her beauty, turning it into something sharp and utterly predatory. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on her lips—a secret kept safe beneath the fabric.

"Hmph. So dark, so gloomy," the words were a low murmur, the sound barely disturbing the silence, like silk brushing against stone.

She shifted slightly, the metallic sheen of the cloak catching a weak light, revealing the intricate, almost sinister-looking clasps near her collarbone. The thought of her twin brother, her beloved, the father of her sons, sent a familiar, warm tremor through her chest, banishing the chill of the night air.

"They think they have won, don't they? That pathetic little rebellion, that usurper Robert sniffing around the throne..." A sharp, almost delighted glint flashed in her eyes. "