The morning following the Threadbinding carried a suffocating weight that seemed to press down upon the very stone of the estate. Though the manor had mechanically rumbled to life, the customary, bustling symphony of household staff and lingering high-born guests felt strangely muted, reduced to a collection of anxious whispers. It was as though every living soul within the walls could sense the violent electrical storm gathering just beneath the polished surface of the court.
Driven by an unspoken need for sanctuary, Elara found herself drawn back into the secluded sanctuary of the old servants’ wing. She sat beside Lyra in the small, warmly lit sitting room, facing Mira. The elderly matriarch had sent a quiet, urgent message insisting on this gathering, staging it in the one room where
