The night in Nocture felt quieter than usual. The black mist that usually floated low now seemed thicker, as if the city itself was drawing a long breath after days of tension long forgotten. Crystal lamps in the perimeter towers blinked slowly like half-closed eyes. In the back garden of the castle, the giant treant still stood tall, its branches swaying gently as if sharing in the silence.
Sylvia sat on her favorite rock like the day before, her black mantle spread across the damp grass. Sofia leaned against her shoulder, the glass of honey wine from Ironvale still half full in her hand. Noir curled in their laps, his pitch-black scales faintly gleaming under the dim fused moonlight. The small treant branch plop-plopped gently at Sofia's feet, like a rhythm that never grew tired.
No one spoke for a while. Only the cold wind brushed their faces, carrying the ever-thicker scent of black roses in the night.
