The rain returned that night.
Soft at first, a distant hush against the manor's roof tiles, then steady, wrapping the house in a damp, muffled quiet.
I sat by the window in my room, fingers tracing circles on the cold glass. The candles burned low, their light flickering against the walls, and the air smelled faintly of damp stone and rosemary.
Somewhere in the west wing, laughter echoed Seraphina's. Low, practiced, the kind that filled a room just to remind you she was in it.
I looked away.
Since the academy visit, everything had shifted. Slightly, imperceptibly, but enough that I felt the edges of it.
Lucien hadn't spoken more than necessary during our return, yet the silence had been different. Not sharp, not hostile.
Almost thoughtful.
And I sensed that was dangerous in its own
