At Ravenshires Manor.
Isolde stood with her back against the towering window frame.
Outside, the rain came down in torrents, as though the heavens had chosen this day to mourn.
"Madame."
An aging maid stepped in with practiced grace, a silver tray in hand. "Your tea has been prepared."
Isolde did not answer at once. She brought her slender pipe to her lips, inhaling with quiet precision.
A wisp of white smoke curled into the air, laced with the bold, spiced tang of Blackwood Elixir—a scent that lingered like a whispered threat.
"Thank you, Monica."
She moved toward the center of the chamber, every step measured, deliberate.
Steam rose from the teacup awaiting her, merging with the haze of smoke that hung faintly in the room. A heavy note of cinnamon threaded through it all—warm, but sharp.
"The rain has caused a landslide along the main road to the manor," the steward reported, offering the tea with a slight bow.
