[Rynthall Estate—Midnight | The Nursery]
The room was warm.
Soft candlelight danced across cream-colored drapes. A lullaby murmured from the enchanted music box on the shelf—an old tune, laced with forgotten magic, gentle as moonlight. In the crib, swaddled beneath a quilt stitched with stars and silver-threaded moons, the youngest heir of House Rynthall slept soundly.
Her tiny fists were curled beneath her chin. Her brow furrowed ever so slightly, as though even in dreams, she found the world disappointing.
Then—
CREEAAAAK.
The nursery door opened.
A figure entered.
She moved like a ghost—soundless, practiced. The hem of her gray uniform barely whispered over the polished floorboards. One of the estate's senior maids. Trusted. Loyal. Invisible.
Her hands trembled.
Her face was pale.
She approached the crib like she was approaching an altar she was not worthy to touch. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she bent over the child.
