The path out of Wyfwood faded into cobbled stone, and the mist receded like a curtain pulled back for a show.
There, rising against the cold blue sky, was the mansion.
Not a ruin. Not a gothic relic.
But a futuristic fortress, gleaming with dark metals and enchanted glass, towers pulsing with soft light, gears turning like it breathed. Strange sigils glowed faintly across the arched spires. Wyfmoor's shadows ended at its gates.
The group slowed.
Salviana's brow furrowed.
"This… this doesn't match the village."
Alaric, atop Soar, exhaled As he pressed a kiss to his wife's neck. "It doesn't match anything."
The sleek, obsidian gates creaked open on their own, revealing rows of uniformed guards standing in quiet precision.
Their armor shimmered—lighter than steel, yet regal as if cut from starlight.
Maids in embroidered black and silver lined the sides of the path, poised like dancers, not a wrinkle in sight.
No horns were blown. No messengers sent ahead.
