The following days at Silver-Crest Manor were marked by a peculiar, luminous energy. The shared dreams—the Nice Dreams—had acted like a solvent, dissolving the jagged edges of the Triumvirate’s hardened hearts. While the rest of the world saw the high walls and the jagged Northern peaks, Nyx, Vane, Malphas, and Caspian were seeing the blueprints of a sanctuary.
It was no longer enough to merely rule. They were obsessed with the feeling of the cottage, the way the golden light had filtered through windows that didn’t yet exist in the manor’s current floor plan.
"The East Wing," Nyx said, her finger tracing a dusty map laid out on the circular table in the solar. "It’s too cold. Too many stone corridors and empty suits of armor. It feels like a tomb."
Vane stood behind her, his chin resti
