"Young master!" The voice, barely a whisper, yet possessed of an unnerving, crystalline sharpness, pierced the languid air of the sprawling estate. It was Elara, a maid no older than sixteen summers, her youthful face usually bright now etched with a worry that aged her beyond her years. Her braided chestnut hair, the color of autumn leaves, danced wildly against her back as she moved, each frantic step a testament to her urgency. The fear that edged her call wasn’t a generalized unease, but a sharp, almost palpable thing, capable of slicing through the peaceful tapestry of the late afternoon like a shard of glass. The setting sun, a molten orb sinking towards the horizon, painted the meticulously manicured gardens in long, languid shadows, stretching the familiar shapes into menacing figu
