The orb began to glow just as the last light slipped below the horizon. It hovered an inch above Sienna-Rose's writing desk, pulsing with a soft violet hue—the color of formal noble communication. It flickered once, then twice, before stabilizing, casting shadows that danced across the velvet drapes of her study.
She looked up from her book, eyes narrowing. "No peace, not even for one night," she muttered, setting her quill down.
With a flick of her fingers, the orb activated, revealing the flickering image of Duke Lysander. His face was drawn, pale, and framed by graying curls. He didn't wear his ceremonial chain, only a plain high-collared coat—formal enough to show respect, yet humble enough to beg.
"Lady Sienna-Rose," he began, his voice thin and tired. "I humbly request an audience. My family is with me. I ask for permission to cross the portal and shelter under your estate's protection."
"I would not ask if it weren't urgent." The duke continued.
