Upon learning that Ian Coldwell had authenticated the painting's genuineness early in the morning and was on his way to the Coldwell residence, Griffith Squire showed no urgency, standing by the pebble path beside the artificial lake, squinting slightly as he watched Aurora Coldwell take a pair of flower shears and return with two plum blossoms clipped.
The young girl was dressed in pure white winter attire, her dark hair like a waterfall. As she got closer, the wintersweet flowers in her arms emitted a faint fragrance, a scent completely different from the stench of blood he was accustomed to. Griffith lowered his eyes. As memories resurfaced, those moments of blood and bone blended into his past, enveloping his life in a dark shade, and sometimes being close to such a pure soul pierced him with pain.
The man took a step back, with a half-smile said, "Aurora, have you ever considered becoming the ruler of the Coldwell Clan?"
