The morning after Eleanor's restless wandering, the manor awoke to a strange silence. Not the comforting hush of dawn, but a hollow stillness, as though the very walls were holding their breath.
At breakfast, the servants whispered of a raven found dead on the front steps, its wings splayed like ink against the stone.
Nathaniel frowned as he studied the bird. "An ill omen," he muttered, though he would not say more.
Eleanor's appetite fled. In her dreams the night before, she had seen the raven—not dead, but circling above the east wing, its cries echoing like a funeral bell.
As she turned from the window, she caught sight of Lucien beyond the iron gates, astride his black horse, watching. He made no move to enter, nor to depart. Simply watched, like a shadow stitched into the landscape.
Nathaniel followed her gaze, his hand tightening around hers. "Do not let him in again. Whatever promises he offers, they are poisoned."
