From within the shadows, a cold aura drifted forward before the body emerged — frail, hunched, and moving with the weight of time.
Her face, wrinkled and gentle, bore a soft smile that might have belonged to a fairy tale grandmother.
Yet the air around her twisted, as if darkness itself recoiled.
To an untrained eye, she was nothing more than an old woman.
But to someone like Yasmin, the shift in presence was unmistakable.
The second she recognized who stood before her, Yasmin dropped her combat stance — though her pounding heartbeat and the bead of sweat that struck the floor betrayed the tension she had just endured.
"Milady... one day, your little hobby will be the death of me," Yasmin said with a forced smile through gritted teeth.
A deep, sincere laugh rang out in response.
"What a joke, little one.
If anyone else had stood in my place, their head would've left their shoulders before they realized their mistake."
Then, with a playful glint in her eye, the old woman added,
"So, Yasmin the small — will you step aside? Or shall we play a little first?"
Yasmin leapt back as if someone had stepped on her tail.
"N-not at all, Lady Bianca!
I simply didn't expect your disguise, and I was... distracted.
Please forgive this foolish servant!"
She bowed swiftly and retreated with almost comical haste, like a rabbit fleeing a storm.
Bianca watched her vanish down the corridor before chuckling to herself.
"That girl never fails to impress me... even after all these years.
My disguise wouldn't be cracked by the greatest masters, yet she's always watching for the smallest inconsistencies.
She's been doing it for a decade now."
She stood in front of Sartor's door for a full ten minutes, adjusting every imperfection in her disguise — things even seasoned experts wouldn't notice.
Only after every flaw was corrected did she finally knock.
Sartor opened the door with a face devoid of emotion, like a mirror that reflected nothing.
Still, he formed the semblance of a polite smile — because that's what was expected of him.
"Good morning, Grandmother," he said, voice even and calculated.
Bianca entered and sat on the edge of his bed.
Sartor returned to his desk chair, posture still and formal, like a statue awaiting orders.
"My dear Sartor," Bianca said softly, "tell me... what do you think of Sir Tian?"
There was a brief pause.
He swallowed — not because of fear he could name, but because something primal inside him stirred at the thought.
Still, his face remained composed.
His tone didn't shift.
"Grandmother… Sir Tian is easy to talk to.
We spoke only for a few minutes, but he seemed... affable."
Without realizing it, he wiped his palm on his pants — a subtle gesture, easily missed by those without the eye to see it.
Bianca's smile grew.
She delighted in his stillness, knowing well that under that quiet surface was a sea of locked doors and silent corridors.
He didn't feel emotions the way others did.
He wore them like clothes — understood their shapes, mimicked their tones — but they rarely reached his core.
"I came too early," she admitted.
"Your grandfather has taken too long to secure the Tian family's help.
But know this: we have given — and will continue to give — everything we have to heal your body."
As she stood, she nearly forgot her disguise, and for a fleeting second, something youthful, powerful shimmered through her elderly form.
But Sartor didn't notice.
His mind was still caught on her words.
His lips parted slightly in what could be called surprise, or perhaps an imitation of it.
"Thank you, Grandmother.
I truly appreciate all that you and Grandfather have done.
I only wish I could repay you... even a little."
Bianca walked over and kissed him lightly on the forehead, her expression softening with something like affection.
Then she turned and left quickly — hiding the faint blush that had crept up her aged cheeks.