Marcus moved through the Sanctum like a shadow chased by his own dread. The corridors were dim, lit only by the low ambient glow of the obsidian-veined walls and the flickering starlight that filtered through the crystal dome above. His bare feet barely made a sound as he took a sharp turn toward the western wing—a section few ever wandered unless they were lost or looking for Aspen.
Because Aspen never slept. Not in the way the others did.
The Grove Guardian existed on borrowed time and ancient energy, and apparently, tea.
Marcus found him exactly where he expected—out on the lower terrace that overlooked the garden court, surrounded by bioluminescent moss, three teacups, a floating candle, and one mildly annoyed squirrel spirit.
"You're early," Aspen said without looking up.
Marcus blinked. "It's past midnight."
Aspen glanced up with a crooked grin. "Early for trouble, then."
Marcus sat.
