[Emma's POV]
The world did not simply darken. It was unmade.
One moment, the foyer was a tableau of tension held in the bruised, dusty light of a dying afternoon—the golden veins in Emma’s shadows, the silver shimmer of Cain’s ward, the pale, grim faces of the Elders etched with judgment.
The next, an absolute, consumptive night fell. It did not creep in from the corners. It dropped like a executioner’s hood over the sun, snuffing it out in a single, silent, definitive act. The windows became voids, reflecting only the terrified gleam of eyes within.
Then came the pulse.
It was not the deep, sympathetic groan of the manor responding to Emma’s pain. This was an external, violent hammer-strike of magic, a shockwave of pure negation that hit the mansion like a physical blow.
The very
