Zoya pov
The nave swallows sound like a tomb. Every footstep echoes off stone, every breath hangs visible in the incense-thick air. I keep my chin level, my pace measured, even as my pulse hammers against the pearls at my throat. The weight of a hundred stares presses against my shoulders, but I don’t look left or right. Only forward, to the coffin that probably holds rocks instead of my father’s body, while he breathes somewhere in the shadows.




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