The carriage ride through the sprawling, overgrown Vernhardt estates felt like a slow crawl through a graveyard of Verona's own making. Every turn of the iron-rimmed wheels over the gravel was a countdown, stripping away the layers of the woman she had become and reducing her back to the terrified girl who had once memorized the patterns of the floorboards just to avoid her father's shadow.
As the carriage finally lurched to a halt in front of the manor's grey, hulking silhouette, the silence was absolute. There were no welcoming lanterns, no flurry of servants to greet a returning lady. There was only the mist and the smell of wet stone.
Varon swung the door open, the cool night air rushing in with a scent of rot and old cedar. He stepped onto the gravel, adjusting his gloves with a preening, agonizing slowness. He looked up at the manor with a smirk that felt like a physical stain.
