The morning air at Mourning Manor was biting, carrying the sharp, crisp scent of approaching winter and the lingering, damp decay of the forest that encroached upon the estate. Gillian stood on the stone side terrace, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the mist roll in from the trees. He had not slept. The exhaustion from his recent illness still etched lines of fatigue around his eyes, and his movements were stiffer than usual, as if his joints were made of rusted iron. He was waiting. He had summoned Ghea to accompany him on this walk, a deliberate move to gauge the internal state of the woman he kept under his roof.
When Ghea stepped onto the terrace, her footsteps were light, almost tentative. She wore a simple, dark gown that blended with the somber atmosphere of the manor
