The tension in the Silverstone family's private London library was a living thing. It clung to the air, thick and heavy, making the flames in the marble fireplace seem to flicker in a vacuum. The confrontation with the Time-Weaver had left an invisible scar on the space, a lingering chill that the warm, wood-paneled room and shelves of leather-bound books couldn't quite erase.
Seraphina paced slowly before the fire, her arms crossed tightly. She wasn't cold; she was burning with a low, simmering anger. The image of those fabricated futures—of a broken Luna, of a world stripped of its soul—was seared behind her eyes. Damon sat in a high-backed armchair, his posture rigid, a glass of amber whiskey untouched on the table beside him. His gaze followed her movements, a silent testament to the shared turmoil.
Luna was asleep upstairs, exhausted from the psychic onslaught, her innocent question—"You're sad?"—still echoing in the silence, a weapon more devastating than any cosmic power.
