The candlelight from the upper floors didn't reach this deep.
Wrapped in the illusion granted by the Veilweaver's Charm, Noel adjusted the hood of his cloak. His reflection—if one could call it that—was no longer his. Instead, it was Saint Charlotte's form staring back: soft features, delicate stature, and most notably, that unmistakable pink hair.
Only the strands of that hair peeked out from beneath the hood. The rest of his body was concealed beneath a dark traveling cloak, designed to blend in and deflect attention.
'Forty-five minutes. That's all I've got.'
He moved with careful, deliberate steps through the monastery's western wing. The halls were quiet—oppressively so. Two guards stood by the arched wooden doors that marked the entrance to the lower levels. When they saw him approaching, their posture shifted immediately.
"Saint Charlotte," one said with respectful composure, lowering his head. "May the Divine Light watch over your steps."
