Strax returned to his mansion at dusk. The sky was tinged with orange and purple, and the wind carried the scent of the distant forest, mixed with the perfume of flowers from the garden.
As he pushed open the front door, he was greeted by an unusual silence—the kind of silence that precedes chaos. His footsteps echoed briefly on the marble floor of the main hall, until he turned the corner into the living room and was met with a scene worthy of an ancient tale: an assembly of imposing, exotic, and dangerous figures, all waiting for him.
Beatrice, arms crossed, in her impeccable uniform and stern gaze.
Monica, sitting quietly on the sofa, knitting on her lap, as if it were just another ordinary afternoon.
Samira, with her feet up on the table, sharpening a dagger absentmindedly.
Cristine leafed through a floating grimoire at her side.
Rogue stood sulking, arms crossed and an expression of pure provocation on her face.
