The wind over the duchy carried an omen that morning—thick, heavy, and cold. Ahce could feel it in her bones. It wasn't the kind of chill that came from temperature, but one born of presage—like the earth itself was warning her to prepare.
From the high balcony of the west tower, the sprawling lands of Pentecase stretched beneath her, bathed in an amber haze. The servants were uneasy; the guards tense. Everyone had heard the rumors—of hybrids sighted near the borders, of civilians vanishing overnight, and of foreign agents infiltrating noble territories.
But Ahce's unease wasn't just about the threats beyond the duchy's walls. It was the new pulse within her own mind. Her psychic power had grown restless, unpredictable. She could sense the thoughts of people she had never touched, emotions blooming in the air like unseen colors. Sometimes, it felt as though the duchy itself whispered to her—every brick, every tree, every heartbeat of its people humming like a collective chorus.
