Far from Elara's turmoil and Ryker's spiraling obsession, Cain's palace lay cloaked in an eternal twilight.
Inside, the eastern wing was alive with muted activity. The scent of herbs, dried lotus petals, and faint metallic tang of blood hung in the air. Books were stacked precariously high on every available surface, open scrolls littered with notes in Fu Ling's neat, precise handwriting. Vials of varying colors lined the massive oak table in front of him, reflecting the soft light of the crystal chandelier above.
Fu Ling hadn't left this wing for three days. After the visit from the Arcana men, he started working double time.
His hair was tied up hastily, a few rebellious strands clinging to his forehead as he leaned over a simmering cauldron, brow furrowed in concentration.
One final stir. One more measured drop of night-blooming belladonna. And.. done.
The liquid shifted, swirling into a perfect, translucent crimson.
Fu Ling froze and started fixated on the liquid.
