The skies of Greydock town were shrouded in a dull gray. Though the rains had eased into a light drizzle, the cold hung thick in the air. Flickers of lamplight danced along the cobbled streets as torches mounted on long poles cast jagged shadows against damp stone walls. Guards patrolled with quiet urgency, their boots splashing in shallow puddles, hands resting on their blades.
At the Grantham residence, the scent of firewood and lavender filled the sitting room. A candle flickered atop a short table. Wrapped in a thick woolen blanket, Marianne sat quietly, her fingers brushing the delicate bracelet the little girl had left behind. The charm pulsed dimly with residual magic, alternating between a faint glow.
"Who would commit such an atrocity?" Marianne asked softly, her voice thick with grief. "The Thornvales never offended anyone."
