The morning light, when it finally pierced the leaded glass of the library windows, was a pale, fragile thing. It did little to dispel the shadows that had taken root during the long night of conversation with Alaric. Elara had agreed to the ritual, but the full weight of her decision was only now settling upon her shoulders. She felt like a pawn in a game far older than she could comprehend, a living sacrifice offered at the altar of a family's cursed history. Yet, beneath the fear, a strange kind of resolve had solidified within her. She had looked into the abyss and hadn't flinched. She had made a choice, and now she would see it through.
Alaric found her in the restoration suite, not working on the painting, but meticulously cleaning her tools. Her hands were steady, a stark contrast
