The night had fully surrendered to the sovereignty of Manor van der Pijl, bringing with it a jungle orchestra far wilder and more primal than any daylit chorus. Inside Nala’s private pavilion, the air was heavy with the scent of aromatic beeswax candles that danced against the dark teak walls, creating a sanctuary of shifting shadows and expectant silence. The fragrance of aged sandalwood and wild jasmine hung thick in the room, a sensory veil designed to wash away the lingering memory of stagnant dust and the metallic tang of rust from the Vault they had so recently desecrated.
Nala sat with a quiet, terrifying majesty upon a low divan draped in the thick pelt of a Sumatran tiger. He had discarded his black silk robe, allowing his powerful, battle-scarred physique—a landscape of iron-har
