The morning light was cool, filtering through heavy damask velvet curtains and casting staggered shadows across the hallways of Blackthorn Manor. Selena woke with an almost instinctive alertness. Even though her vision remained shrouded—save for the microscopic, flickering sense of light brought on by the antidote—she could recognize the familiar, restrained yet powerful cadence of those footsteps.
It was Silas.
"Mistress, you are awake."
Silas pushed the door open, the scent of cold fir accompanying him, smelling particularly crisp in the morning air. He walked quickly, his eyes—usually as calm as a still lake—smoldering with a suppressed, terrifying rage.
Without wasting time on pleasantries, he stood by Selena’s bedside and lowered his voice to report the results of the midnight in
