Celestine's PoV
The opulent silence of the Dravenhart sitting room, a space dedicated to hushed conversations and curated luxury, was abruptly shattered by the familiar sound of a distant, commanding voice. I leaned back deeply into the cushions of the antique velvet settee, the fabric dark, plush, and intensely comforting beneath my tense frame. The wireless landline, a sleek, modern device, felt impossibly light against the weight of the encroaching night outside—a night that was thick with the scent of pine and the crisp chill of autumn. The only illumination beyond the device itself was the faint, steady glow of the grandfather clock in the distant hallway, its brass pendulum swinging with rhythmic, unhurried certainty, casting long, skeletal shadows that stretched and warped across t
