The morning sun over the Capital rose with a cruel brilliance. It cut through the lingering river mist in long, golden shafts, illuminating the dust motes in the grand corridors of the Aldenar estate with a cheerfulness that felt like a physical mockery. To the city outside, it was just another day of commerce and courtly intrigue. But inside the manor, the air had begun to thicken with a premonition of disaster.
Brielle was the first to approach Verona's chambers. She moved with her usual morning pep, the silver tray in her hands rattling slightly with a rhythmic, domestic comfort. On it sat a pot of steaming lemon tea, steeped exactly how Verona liked it to cut through the morning fog, and a plate of honey-biscuits. Brielle was humming a Northern folk song, a jaunty tune about a shepherd and a star that Zachren had whistled to her before he left. It was her way of keeping the loneliness at bay.
