The night had a pulse of its own that evening—slow, deliberate, and ominous. The moon hung swollen above the lands of Velmire, painting the fields and manors in a pale sheen of silver. Wind whispered through the hedges, and the world seemed to hold its breath.
Far from the peaceful quiet of Madam Helen's home, something stirred beyond the reach of mortal eyes.
Lucarion appeared before the towering gates of Marudas Estate.
He did not walk there. He simply was.
One heartbeat, the gravel road was empty. The next, a figure of impossible grace stood in the moonlight—tall, dark-haired, his coat rippling though there was no wind. The air bent around him, shadows curling at his boots like living ink. His dark eyes gleamed faintly beneath the dark hood.
The guards on duty leaned lazily against their spears, complaining about the chill, never noticing how the torches dimmed one by one.
