The cold northern air hit me like a clean blade—sharp, honest, and unforgiving. Below, the Creighton estate rose out of Luminarc's urban sprawl not like a building, but like a statement. Lines of gleaming glass and hardened steel were woven through with spell-work; you could almost see the thrum of protective wards under the stone, humming a silent song of power. The gardens, carved into the architecture with geometric precision, were impossibly green against the metal.
Rachel met me in the garden pavilion. She was in a simple white coat, her dark hair unbound, wearing the specific calm she reserved for moments when the world was on fire. She didn't wait. The instant our eyes met, her composure broke into a radiant smile and she closed the distance between us in a few quick steps.
