The morning light did not bring clarity. It brought only a cold, biting wind that rattled the windowpanes of the Silver-Crest Manor, sounding like the fingernails of a ghost scratching against the glass.
Nyx sat at the head of the heavy oak table in the solarium, the smell of fresh ink and parchment clashing with the lingering scent of stale incense from the night before. Her hand rested on a stack of ledgers that required her seal, but her eyes were fixed on the frost patterns on the glass. The dream from the previous night was still coiled in the back of her mind, a serpent waiting to strike. The table. The wine. The fall.
"You haven't touched your tea," Vane said, his voice dropping into that low, grounding register he used only for her. He stood behind her chair, his hands resting on
