The estate was deep in the grip of the night. A heavy, profound silence lay over the manicured gardens and the grand, shadowed halls. In the west wing, the light in the Grand Duke's study had been extinguished for hours.
The door, heavy and carved, creaked open, a sliver of darkness in the moonlight-striped corridor.
A figure, small and silent as a ghost, slipped inside. It was Senna. She was dressed in a simple, dark, silk robe, her feet bare on the cold, polished floor. Her face, in the dim moonlight, was cold, determined, and an almost fanatical resolve.
She moved with a dancer's silent grace to the large, ornate, silver incense burner that stood by the window. She produced a small, leather pouch from her robe. With trembling, but steady, fingers, she opened it and sprinkled a dark, glittering, herbal-looking powder into the fresh, unlit incense.
She then took a match, her hand cupped to hide the flare, and lit the incense.
