Mrs. Adele's house was nothing like the tall glass buildings surrounding it. Tucked into a quiet side street near the old district, it looked more like a remnant from another era—dark wood beams, small windows, ivy crawling up the walls. To anyone else, it might seem like an eccentric old woman's home. But the moment Isadora stepped inside with Marissa, she felt the shift.
The air was thick with something familiar—magic. Not the faint shimmer of Veridium's enchanted halls, but older, heavier, as though every stone in the walls remembered where it came from. Shelves lined the living room, not with novels but with thick tomes bound in leather, jars of powders and herbs, and strange objects that hummed softly when Isadora passed them.
"Welcome," Mrs. Adele said, moving with graceful ease despite her age. She led them toward the back, where a long table was spread with parchment, candles, and open books. "I thought it best we talk here, where no one will overhear."
