The chandelier in the east salon flickered softly against the warm marbled ceiling, each crystal shard catching threads of dusk like whispered promises. Serathine sat on the chaise near the arched window, a small tray of untouched figs beside her, one hand poised over the silk-creased armrest while the other thumbed through messages on her tablet with the precision of someone accustomed to removing thorns without flinching.
Two messages. One from Dax. One from Trevor. Neither dressed in ceremony.
Dax's was brief—an update about Jason Luna and a quiet nod toward a pattern she had already sensed. Faceless Agatha was active again, and they were not patient. Trevor's was longer, coded beneath old agreements and a private seal that hadn't been used since the night she'd agreed to shelter a child no one wanted. She read it once. Then again. The weight of it settled into her lungs.
Across the room, the soft shuffle of footsteps made her glance up.
