Meanwhile, back in the Nocturne Mansion, Ethan's room still smelled faintly like him—warm, familiar, the kind of scent that didn't just sit in the air but had sunk deep into the wood, the bedding, the smallest threads of the blankets.
It was more than a smell; it was a presence, the echo of someone who had lived in this space, breathed in it, filled it with his voice and his quiet.
It lingered even with the windows closed, and even without trying, it pulled them back to every moment he had been here.
Under it all was the low, steady hum of the protective wards. They had always been there—never loud, never demanding attention—but once you noticed them, they were impossible to forget.
A constant thrum, like the slow heartbeat of the room, reminding them that this was still a protected place, a place kept safe for him.
