The edges of Elowen's silver-green hair caught the fading light, glowing faintly as the last threads of sun slid through the high windows.
Across from her, Lilith's crimson eyes reflected that same light, though in them it looked more like fire.
The tea on the table had long since cooled, the candles burned low, yet the air inside the warded room remained steady, as if even the walls of the Nocturne mansion knew what they were meant to guard.
Outside, the world shifted restlessly—pawns moving, shadows whispering, debts older than memory stirring again—but within these walls, there was no storm, no gods pressing their weight down, only the kind of silence that women like them had learned to create and defend.
Evening fell slowly across the estate. The gardens darkened into velvet shadows, and the warding torches in the courtyard sprang to life one by one, their flames steady despite the faint wind threading through the stone corridors.
