The morning broke pale and cool, the kind of stillness that carried its own weight. Dew clung to the grass in fine beads, and the air was sharp enough to wake the skin. Beyond the eastern walls of the castle lay an expanse of flat stone ringed by trees whose branches still held the hush of night. The place felt half-forgotten, yet purposeful, as though it had been waiting for this very hour.
Anneliese drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she followed Vincenzo and stepped onto the stones. Her breath rose faint in the cold, her pulse quick beneath her ribs. The silence pressed close, broken only by the faint stir of wings overhead.
Elowyn was already there, standing at the far end of the clearing, black leather catching the dim light. Hands clasped loosely behind her back, she looked as though she belonged not to the moment but to something carved deeper, older. When her gaze lifted, it was as sharp as the chill in the air.
