The morning sun spilled golden light across the front gardens of the Holyfield mansion, warming the stone pathways and making the fountain's water sparkle like scattered diamonds.
There was a pleasant chill in the air—not cold enough to bite, but enough to make the warmth of the sun feel like a gentle embrace.
It was, in every way, a perfect day for an outing.
A group of sisters from Joy's order walked through the garden, their black robes catching the breeze.
Normally, no matter where they went, their faces were carved from stone—stern, composed, utterly devoted to the goddess above.
Their expressions rarely changed, their lips rarely curved into anything resembling a smile.
But today was different.
Today, they were laughing.
"Did you see the look on Sister Agnes's face when she caught that ball?" One sister giggled, her voice light and unguarded. "I thought she was going to fall flat on her face!"
