Several years ago, before the boy became the storm they would one day fear…
The great hall glittered with gold and laughter that did not reach Esme’s ears.
She sat at the far end of the feasting table, crown still fixed upon her brow, gown of black silk trailing like liquid night across the floor. Beside her, Ciel leaned into her arm, his tiny hand clutching hers beneath the tablecloth. He was quiet tonight—too quiet.
At the head of the table, Agatha basked in the adoration of the court. Her hair, burnished copper under the torchlight, gleamed like fire itself. Draped in pale gold, she carried herself like a goddess descending among mortals, her every movement precise, calculated, perfect.
The nobles had gathered for the feast in her honor—the Oracle’s Daughter, bearer of the prophesie
