"Enjoy your shopping, my princess," Richter murmured to the empty courtyard, his voice cold, steady, and full of absolute malice.
The memory of his own quiet declaration faded as the heavy glass doors of the Beatrice Estate greenhouse shut behind him, sealing out the freezing mountain wind of Upper Aethelgard. Inside, the atmosphere was completely different. The air was thick, suffocatingly humid, and heavily saturated with the scent of damp soil, rotting wood, and exotic, steam-heated orchids. Massive iron pipes ran along the glass ceiling, hissing loudly as they pumped superheated moisture into the artificial jungle. It was a stark contrast to the cold, metallic city outside, a display of immense wealth that allowed a single widow to grow tropical flora in the middle of an industrial
