Walking one of the final halls before my room, I noticed the walls were lined with portraits. The further down the hall I got, the more recent the paintings looked. Pausing at one of the last ones, I stared at the work of art. The woman depicted was beautiful. She looked vaguely familiar. “The queen,” Cyrus said, mournful. Now I knew why she seemed familiar. Nyla was a spitting image of her mother. “Why isn’t she ever around?” I asked, my heart sinking, realizing I knew the answer. “She died a few years ago.”
