Catherine took in the room slowly.
It was dim, deliberately so, as though light itself had been discouraged from lingering. Thick velvet curtains swallowed the windows whole, allowing only thin seams of gray daylight to bleed through. The air was heavy with layered scents: dried sage, myrrh, something bitter and metallic beneath it all, like rain on old coins.
At the center of the room stood a low, circular table carved with symbols she didn't recognize but somehow felt. A crystal ball rested atop it, flawless and unnervingly clear, catching what little light there was and bending it inward. The glass pulsed faintly, as if breathing. Or listening.
Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling on twine—lavender gone pale with age, thorned stems, curled leaves that crackled softly when the air shifted. Some were fresh, still green and alive. Others were brittle, darkened, preserved long past their natural end.
