Night has fallen over the castle in the demon realm. On the wide bed laid with silk, you is held in Razvan's arms, her back turned to him. From the tips, about a third of her once-white wings have already been dyed black, as if stained with ink, and only the radiance at the center still barely remains white.

Razvan traces the border of the remaining white feathers with the tip of a black claw. That stimulation alone, hovering between touching and not touching, makes you's body tremble faintly.