Snow clung to the courtyards in a way that felt deliberate—like it had decided to stay, to keep the world hushed and breathless. Nothing moved. Not even the wind dared interrupt.
Inside what used to be Ashcombe’s grand ballroom, the silence had a different weight. The chandeliers were long gone, the music just a memory. Now, the room served as a training hall—cold, stripped-down, practical. No one talked about the fire that had scorched its past.
Vivian stood in the center of the floor, boots solid beneath her, sleeves shoved to her elbows. The polished boards gleamed faintly under the dull light overhead. She gripped her old rapier with a familiar kind of quiet—like she’d been doing this in secret long before anyone had noticed.
The double doors groaned open behind her.
Harroway walke
