Clara found Rafe in the east wing, in a room that didn’t belong to the living.
It had no name, no markings on the door, just a narrow iron handle and a silence that pressed against the ears like a held breath. She stepped inside without asking, her boots echoing faintly on the stone floor. The room was built like a chapel—tall, vaulted ceilings and heavy candle sconces casting flickering shadows against the cracked plaster. The air smelled of old parchment, beeswax, and something older still—something feral beneath the dust.
No windows. No light save for flame.
It was the kind of place built not for comfort, but confession.
Rafe stood alone at a broad wooden table in the center, surrounded by ancient books and scrolls. The table’s surface was carved with concentric symbols—circles with
