The calm in the back garden of Nocture Castle that night felt fragile, like a thin sheet of glass waiting to crack. Sylvia was still sitting against the large stone beneath the giant treant, her red eyes half-closed, her black cloak spread across the cold, damp grass. The treant's small branch kept plopping gently in her lap, like a child who never tired of playing. Noir curled warmly beside her, his soft purr almost drowned out by the night wind carrying the thick scent of black roses.
But the world answered Sylvia's boredom in a way she had never asked for.
The ground trembled first with only a small vibration, like the pulse of a giant waking from a long sleep. The black-silver leaves of the giant treant swayed harder than usual. The small branch stopped plopping; its leaves stiffened as if listening. Noir's red eyes snapped open wide, his black scales bristling, a low growl full of threat rumbling in his throat.
