The outskirts of the Aldenar estate were shrouded in a thick, rolling mist that clung to the cobblestones like a wet shroud. The transition from the warmth of the manor to the skeletal dampness of the night felt like a descent into another world. Verona walked alone, her footsteps muffled by the fog, yet echoing in her mind with the finality of a funeral drum.
Just as Varon had said, a black carriage waited in the deep shadows of a cluster of ancient, twisted oak trees at the edge of the district. It was an obsidian blot against the grey fog, bearing no crest or marking that could link it to the Vernhardt family. Its lanterns were dimmed to a low, eerie glow that barely cut through the darkness, making the horses look like spectral beasts born from the mist itself.
