The subterranean workspace utilized by Seraphina was a sanctuary of silence and shadow, tucked deep beneath the foundations of the Red Rose. Here, the air was cool and smelled faintly of old parchment, bitter almond ink, and the metallic tang of guttering oil lamps. Unlike the opulent floors above, where the scent of expensive lilies and the sound of forced laughter masked the trade of secrets, this room was a nerve center of cold, hard reality. Stone walls, damp with the humidity of the capital’s underground, were covered in overlapping maps and pinned scraps of ciphered messages. Seraphina sat at a heavy mahogany desk, her silhouette cast long and thin against the rough masonry by a single, flickering candelabra. She moved with a calculated grace, her quill scratching a rhythmic, jagged
