The small drawing room of the Aldenar estate was a space of refined, almost aggressive comfort. Usually, it was filled with the soft, floral scent of dried rose petals and the rhythmic, comforting ticking of a gilded clock atop the mantle. It was a room designed for intimate gossip and quiet embroidery. But as Verona stepped inside, pushing the heavy doors shut with final click, the atmosphere shifted. The air felt thin and unnervingly cold, as if the very stones of the manor were holding their breath.
Varon stood by the tall, arched window, his silhouette dark and jagged against the fading afternoon light. He didn't turn immediately when she entered. Instead, he stood with his hands clasped precisely behind his back, peering out at the manicured Aldenar gardens with the appreciative eye of a man who was already calculating their value in a liquidation sale.
