The candles in the windows had burned low by morning.
The house was quiet, but not asleep. It was listening.
Taylor stood in the kitchen, slicing apples with deliberate care. Ava sat at the table, reading through the letters they’d drafted the night before. Delia and Elias were in the garden, marking the perimeter with chalk and string—an improvised warding system, not magical, but symbolic.
Landon was in the library, flipping through old council records. He wasn’t looking for strategy. He was looking for patterns. For cracks.
Mrs. Davies watched them all from the parlor, her tea untouched.
Then the knock came.
Not frantic. Not polite.
Just three firm raps on the front door.
Taylor answered.
The man standing there was soaked from the rain, his coat torn, his eyes sharp. He held a
