The evaluation had ended hours ago. Edmund and his Council members had departed with their careful notes and reluctant approval. Marcus had retired to his study, exhausted from the tension. Even Aldric had gone to bed, though Marron suspected he wasn't sleeping—just giving her space to process the day's victory.
Victory. It should have felt like one.
Marron sat alone in the west wing kitchen, moonlight painting the stone floors in shades of silver and shadow. The Fermentation Crock sat on the counter, its amber glow a soft heartbeat in the darkness. Beside it, the Precision Blade rested in its sheath.
Six tools. Six siblings in proximity, even if only for scheduled sessions.
The Blade hummed.
It was a sound she'd never heard before—not the satisfied warmth it gave when a cut was well-made, not the patient pulse when it waited to be used. This was different. Higher. Almost eager.
Anticipation.
