The Night the Patriarch Fell
Valemont — De Dominicis Household.
Ever since Amara Ravenswood had come to treat the patriarch last time, the old man's condition had steadily improved.
Fresh pink touched his skin again. Food tasted good to him now. A bit of calm had slipped into his usual grumpiness.
Later that evening, once the meal ended, the old man found a spark of energy pulling him toward calligraphy - work he hadn't touched since winter.
The study was quiet.
A whisper of sandalwood curled through the air, cut by the sharpness of fresh ink. Over the dark grain of the desk, light settled slow and thick. Tall windows rattled faintly - winter's breath tapping, always tapping.
With slow fingers, the old man gripped the brush, back straight even after so many years.
The first stroke descended.
Halfway through the character—
The brush slipped from his hand.
It clattered against the desk, splashing ink across unfinished paper.
His fingers curled inward violently.
