The corridors of the Ravenscroft estate were quiet at night.
Morena walked with steady steps, the ring of keys cold against her hip, the scent of parchment and smoke still clinging to her from hours in the archive. Her body was weary, but her mind was sharper than ever; every detail she had uncovered was stored in her mind, easily accessible.
The candles along the walls flickered faintly, leaving long shadows stretching over stone. Outside, the air was cold, seeping through the cracks of the shutters, the sound of wind whispering softly as it moved.
When she reached her chamber, she paused.
The door was closed exactly as she had left it; the latch was in place. But when she pushed it open, the faintest shift in air reached her nose—the trace of water and bitter resin.
Her eyes flicked to the table. And there she saw it, a jug sat there, filled. The glass beside it was half poured, as though waiting for her.
She had not poured it nor had she asked anyone to pour it for her.
