Evening settled over the estate with deliberate grace.
The last light lingered along the stone balustrades and glass panes, turning every surface burnished gold. Inside the west wing, the corridors carried that peculiar hush Elara had come to recognize — not quiet, but restraint. Voices lowered. Footsteps softened. Doors closed with care rather than force.
As if the house itself respected the man who lived within it.
Or feared him.
Elara stood outside Alessandro's study door with her hand raised and unmoving.
Her pulse thudded in her ears.
She could still see the blood in the frost.
Still hear the elders' voices.
Still feel the weight of truths withheld.
Enough.
She knocked once and entered without waiting.
The study smelled faintly of leather, cedar, and something darker — not unpleasant, not identifiable. A fire burned low in the hearth. Tall windows framed the fading sky.
