The car halted before the Minister's residence just as the lamps were being lit. Their glow spilled over the cobblestones, glinting on polished brass and damp stone still holding the memory of afternoon heat. The first of September had ended in a clear dusk—neither warm nor cold, neither summer nor autumn. The air carried the faintest scent of leaves just beginning to turn, of city smoke tempered by distance. It was an evening balanced between two seasons—and, for Serena Maxwell, between two fates.
She paused before stepping down. Through the window, she could see the soft motion of the crowd within: silk moving against uniform, a shimmer of laughter caught in the light. The noise reached her as a low, indistinct hum—like the sea pressing against glass, constant and alive but far away. She let herself draw one slow breath, steadying the faint tremor that rose unbidden in her chest. Then she descended, every gesture deliberate.
