The twilight light barely managed to filter through the archways covered in vines, and the air—dense and warm—smelled of damp leaves… and something else: a metallic, primal stench the wind carried like a whispered warning.
The path leading to the small library seemed to swallow the last scraps of daylight.
Branches veiled the stone arches like a forgotten curtain, and the air, growing denser, smelled of moisture and something more. Something that didn't belong to any garden.
Gretta and Clammie walked together, their steps shorter, more cautious. Neither dared admit it—perhaps they couldn't even define it—but every fiber in their bodies told them something was happening, or something was approaching.
That's when the figure emerged from between the twisted columns.
At first it was just a jerky movement. Then, the full silhouette.
A pale creature, with skin stretched tight over its bones, staggering toward them with brutal clumsiness.
Its hair, tangled and filthy, hung over a withered face where, horribly, human traces could still be made out—the shape of the chin, the curve of the brows, the remains of a frayed braid.
It wasn't a leap or an immediate attack.
It was a broken movement, almost pathetic, but filled with hunger.
A human silhouette, stripped of its own humanity, stumbling toward them with dull eyes and limbs that seemed to have forgotten how to walk.
Gretta felt instinct tighten every muscle in her body.
Clammie, on the other hand, froze, as if something in that figure—something twisted but familiar—had chained her to the ground. She stopped completely, paralyzed, as though something inside her recognized that nameless specter.
The creature advanced with a low gasp, raising a hand with splintered nails.
It all happened in the blink of an eye.
Gretta, quicker despite the fear, yanked Clammie's arm hard, pulling her away from a swipe that tore through the air where her shoulder had been just a second before.
With her other hand, almost without thinking, Gretta reached into her satchel for the small whistle.
She brought it to her lips, and this time, without hesitation, blew.
The sound that emerged wasn't loud, but sharp—vibrant—with a resonance that seemed to pierce through the very space around them.
The creature shuddered immediately, retreating as if something invisible had struck it.
It clutched its temples in a convulsive gesture, unable to bear the echo.
And a moment later, Freyr appeared.
Not walking. Not running.
Simply breaking into the air, as if summoned by the very vibration of the whistle.
Without wasting a second, he slammed the pseudo-vampire against the stone wall, with a blow that echoed like a muffled thunderclap.
The creature groaned beneath the impact, its limbs twitching in erratic spasms.
Gretta, still holding the whistle with trembling hands, ran to Freyr without thinking.
She hugged him.
She threw herself against his chest in a blind impulse, like someone running toward the only light in the midst of a storm.
Freyr tensed for a second, surprised.
The warmth of that embrace struck him harder than any battle: it was intentional, sincere, and for a moment, it knocked him off balance.
Then, with a tenderness almost painful, he returned the embrace, wrapping his arms around her as if the simple act of holding her could mend everything broken.
—Are you both alright? —he murmured, his voice rough against her hair.
Clammie, still trembling, began to recover some lucidity.
—What… what was that? What just happened? —she asked, her voice cracking between disbelief and fear.
Freyr looked at her, the seriousness returning to his face.
This wasn't a place for explanations.
Without letting go of Gretta, he extended his power, surrounding them in an almost imperceptible current of air.
A blink later, they were no longer on the path.
They had materialized inside the room Gretta and Clammie shared.
Now safe, with the curtains drawn and the murmur of night sealed behind the stone walls, Gretta gently let go of Freyr.
Her hands slipped slowly from his dark coat, and she lowered her gaze, a little embarrassed by her impulse.
Clammie, still seated on the floor, began to sit up slowly, brushing off her skirt with trembling hands.
Without thinking, Gretta went to her and hugged her too, wrapping her in a warm, sincere gesture.
Clammie didn't respond at first. She just took a deep breath, as if trying to return from the edge of an abyss.
—That… was that Professor Míriam? —she murmured at last, more as someone piecing things together aloud than asking a real question.
Then, looking up at Freyr, she added with a mixture of clarity and confusion:
—And you… you're not just a gardener. —She paused, her eyes searching his—. Who are you, Lucian?
Her question wasn't empty. The texts from her father's manuscript raced through the sharp mind of the blonde, and Freyr could sense the clarity and speed of her reasoning.
Freyr didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on Gretta for a moment, as if making sure she was truly alright, before speaking.
—Gretta —he said calmly—, you'll be safe here.
I have to go take care of the hueste.
Gretta, still driven by the impulse to protect Clammie, took the herbal journal her friend was holding with shaky hands and stepped toward Freyr, offering it to him.
—Would you do us a favor? —she asked softly, explaining quickly—. We were going to return this to the botanical archive. It's important.
Freyr understood at once.
He nodded, taking the journal in one hand—the same hand that moments ago had held the strength to crush a monster.
—I will —he said simply.
He turned toward the window, ready to leave, but paused one second longer.
He looked at Clammie, gauging her state, the persistent clarity in her gaze.
Too much clarity.
When Freyr vanished, dissolving with the afternoon breeze, all that remained was the faint tremor in the air and the soft scent of roses that had yet to bloom.
Clammie began to speak again, more to herself than to Gretta:
—Then... they're real —she murmured, barely audible—. Like in my father's manuscript. The blood-born... the hidden pacts...
Her voice grew steadier, as though the threads of truth were beginning to weave themselves in her mind.
That's when Freyr's powers, still lingering in the air he left behind, began to take effect.
A subtle veil descended over Clammie's most recent memories.
It wasn't a violent erasure.
It was a fine, delicate fabric that blurred recollection, like morning dew erasing the footprints of the night.
The words on Clammie's lips became vague.
Her eyes blinked, and the thread of her thoughts unraveled gently.
Silence slowly returned to the room after Freyr's departure, as if his absence had left a tangible void between the stone walls.
Gretta drew in a slow breath, trying to calm the wild rhythm of her heartbeat. Then she turned toward Clammie, who sat on the edge of the bed with a confused, distant expression.
—Are you alright? —Gretta asked softly, making an effort to sound calm.
Clammie blinked several times, lifting a hand to her temple.
—I think so... —she murmured—. It's strange, I feel like I was dreaming, like when you wake up and can't quite remember what you were dreaming about.
A pang of guilt struck Gretta's chest.
She knew a part of the truth had been taken from her friend, and even though she understood the reason, that didn't make the weight any lighter.
—You were really tired after Body Arts class and drifted off —she said with a slight smile, trying to sound convincing.
—That must be it... —Clammie replied, uncertain—. But it felt so vivid, so real... I remember a shadow... or someone in the room. Someone tall, with eyes... intense. But I'm not sure anymore...
Gretta swallowed hard, looking away.
She knew she wouldn't be able to meet her gaze without giving herself away.
—Sounds like you just had a restless dream, that's all —she said quietly, though she felt she might already be explaining too much.
Clammie nodded slowly, though a shadow of doubt still lingered in her face.
Wanting to shake off the awkward silence, Gretta changed the subject a bit abruptly. Her eyes drifted toward the window where Freyr had vanished minutes earlier.
—Clammie! The class with the new professor… we should go, quickly.
The reaction was immediate. Clammie blinked as if waking from a trance, her expression regaining a trace of its usual clarity.
—You're right! I almost forgot! —She stood up at once, smoothing her skirt with hands that were still slightly shaky.
They grabbed their satchels and headed to class. The footsteps of other students blended with the echo of their own along the corridor, and up ahead, a stairway led down to the second floor where lessons were held.
Gretta walked in silence, feeling the weight of every unspoken word, every truth she couldn't share.
—I wonder how Professor Míriam is doing —Clammie said, breaking the silence naturally—. I hope she returns soon. I think you'd like her.
Gretta forced a smile that barely reached her lips.
—Maybe she'll be back soon... —she whispered, trying to sound casual, though the words felt heavy.
It was true. Clammie had said she thought she recognized Professor Míriam in that creature.
Was it really her?
Gretta wondered, with an odd sense of sorrow for someone she had never truly met.
...
The classroom assigned for the new professor's lesson was on the second floor—an airy space with tall windows through which twilight spilled in golden beams.
The pale stone walls were adorned with modest tapestries, and nearby shelves held old volumes on botany and nocturnal fauna, a prelude to the subject the new teacher would be covering.
Gretta and Clammie entered just in time. A few heads turned at their arrival, but there were no more inquisitive stares or open whispers.
Gretta's presence, though still a little unusual to some, was beginning to settle into the rhythm of the Institute.
—We were almost late —Clammie said with a light smile, adjusting her skirt before sitting at the shared desk with Gretta.
Gretta couldn't help but smile faintly. Clammie's natural ease felt like a balm after everything that had just happened.
Before they could exchange more words, a young girl with a delicate face approached shyly. Her hair was braided simply, and she held a small notebook to her chest.
—Lady Clammie… I just wanted to thank you for helping me with the rhetoric lesson. I managed to recite everything without a single mistake today —she said with a slight blush.
Clammie smiled kindly.
—I'm glad to hear that, Marienne. What matters is that it was your own effort.
The girl nodded and, after offering Gretta a small respectful nod, walked away.
Gretta watched the scene in silence. She was surprised by how effortlessly Clammie earned the goodwill of others.
—See? Not everyone here's a tiara-wearing harpy —Clammie joked in a low voice—. They just need time.
Gretta smiled faintly.
—I guess everything has its pace —she replied, her shoulders relaxing slightly.
Before she could say more, a murmur swept through the classroom.
The doors had slammed shut, and a heavy silence settled over the room.
From the threshold, Professor Dorian Velkan's figure emerged against the hallway's dim light.
Tall, with impeccable posture, he wore a dark robe with simple lines that, despite their austerity, commanded respect.
He walked toward the center of the room with deliberate slowness, as if every step had been calculated not to be rushed nor hesitant.
His eyes, a steely gray, swept over the students methodically, never lingering on anyone for more than a second... until his gaze met Gretta's.
It was just a moment—but enough.
Gretta felt something unsettling in that look. For a moment, she sensed an intent—perhaps a warning?
Beside her, Clammie had fallen unusually silent.
Gretta noticed the tension in her shoulders and the way her fingers gripped the fabric of her skirt. That alone was enough to make the discomfort more real.
Velkan, for his part, held that gaze a second longer than necessary.
There was something about that girl.
A familiarity impossible to explain, an echo vibrating in his perception like a name on the tip of his tongue.
He restrained the impulse to look at her again.
—Welcome —he finally said, his voice deep and precise, low enough to make the students lean in and listen carefully—. I hope you've brought more than notebooks to this class.
A slight shiver ran through several students.
Gretta, however, remained composed.
But her fingers, almost imperceptibly, tightened around the edge of the whistle.
Dorian Velkan turned to the board without another word.
Seemingly indifferent.
But in his mind, one image lingered—like the shadow of a thought clinging to his memory:
the eyes of that girl.
...
Meanwhile, the night air outside Áura Stella had grown denser, as if the darkness itself mistrusted the place.
Freyr moved through the outer corridors with firm steps, following the faint trail of the creature he had slammed against the stone moments before.
He found it near one of the old greenhouses, a forgotten place where vines had claimed the walls, and the broken glass let in the cold breeze.
The creature was crawling, desperately trying to hide, but its body no longer obeyed.
Freyr observed in silence as he approached with steady steps, eyes narrowed as his senses analyzed every feature.
—So it was you, Míriam… —he murmured softly, more a certainty than a question.
The face of what remained of the professor still held vaguely human traces, but the decay of her mind was undeniable.
She wasn't completely lost.
Not yet.
Freyr took two more steps.
—How did you come to this? —he whispered, as if still hoping there was a shred of reason left in the creature.
But the only reply was a guttural snarl, her dull eyes focused on nothing.
Even so… Freyr could sense remnants of what once was. Her instinct had brought her to the library, to the place where she used to spend hours among plants.
Did her broken mind still remember who she had been?
Freyr frowned. How had this happened? Never before had a hueste appeared within the walls of the Institute.
Let alone one that had once been part of the staff.
Was it coincidence? An unconscious impulse that led her here?
Or was it something more?
A chill ran down his spine as he moved closer.
—An impuro, maybe? —he asked without expecting a reply— Or perhaps… someone of higher rank?
His gaze swept cautiously around.
Everything seemed calm.
Too calm.
If someone was responsible, they were hiding well… or far more skilled than what he usually dealt with.
He crouched slowly until he was at her level.
With a gentleness that contrasted with the gravity of his gesture, he placed a hand on the creature's nape.
His fingers closed with almost reverent care, as if in this final moment, he wished to grant her some dignity.
—Rest in peace, Míriam —he murmured, his voice heavy.
For a fleeting moment, Freyr thought he saw something in her clouded eyes—an impossible reflection, a fleeting glimmer of the woman who once taught flowers to speak in the silence of the greenhouses.
A sharp crack broke the silence.
Brief.
Definitive.
The creature's body, finally freed from its curse, began to dissolve.
Ashes rose in a soft spiral, carried by the breeze that flowed through the garden.
For a moment, they seemed to dance among the leaves of the plants she had once tended with care, brushing open petals as if, in her final act, the professor was walking her garden one last time.
And then, the night took her.
Freyr lingered a moment longer, his gaze fixed on the spot where she had been.
—May the earth remember you for who you were… and not for what they made you —he whispered, before fading into the darkness.
...
Night drifted slowly over Áura Stella, and in the room dimly lit by moonlight, everything seemed suspended in a moment of stillness.
Gretta stood by the window, her fingers absentmindedly brushing the stone frame.
Outside, the stars trembled above a sky so clear it seemed to invite one's thoughts to wander.
A soft breeze carried the muted scent of the garden's flowers, and for a moment, nothing existed but that silence.
Her eyes followed the slow dance of the constellations, but in truth, she wasn't looking at anything.
She was thinking of the melody from the night before, of Freyr's unspoken words, of the unsettling shadow cast by the new professor…
Everything felt larger, more enigmatic beneath the milky light of the moon.
From the bathroom came the sound of dripping water, followed by the soft steps of bare feet on the cold tiles.
Moments later, Clammie stepped into the room wrapped in a long linen towel, running her fingers through damp hair.
—If you keep staring at the stars like that —said Clammie from behind, her tone soft, laced with both curiosity and a hint of mischief— they might end up telling you their secrets.
Gretta gave a slight smile, but didn't look away from the sky.
Clammie approached slowly, her bare feet leaving faint prints on the floor.
Her hair was still wrapped in a towel, and her skin glowed with the moisture from the bath.
The moonlight highlighted the clarity of her eyes, watchful, studying her friend with quiet concern.
—You're very quiet tonight —she noted, tilting her head slightly as she adjusted the towel on her shoulders—. More than usual, I mean.
Gretta let out a long breath, as if trying to exhale some invisible weight.
—I'm… tired, I guess —she murmured, though she knew it wasn't just tiredness that weighed on her chest.
Clammie watched her for a few seconds more.
There was something in Gretta she couldn't quite read. A kind of longing or hidden worry behind her silences.
As if she were holding onto a thought too vast to put into words.
But instead of pressing further, she took another path.
—Last night you left me hanging with a question, remember? —she said casually, stepping closer to the window, standing beside her.
Gretta furrowed her brow slightly, as if needing a second to place the memory.
—What question?
Clammie smiled gently, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret.
—I asked if you believed in vampires...
Gretta felt a slight chill run down her spine.
The word shouldn't affect her—not after everything she'd witnessed—but still, it had a near-physical weight in her ears.
Clammie didn't wait for an answer.
—And I mentioned something else too, didn't I? —her voice dropped even lower, as if afraid of being heard by walls too attentive—. My father's manuscript.
Gretta closed her eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.
Yes, she remembered. She remembered it all… even the parts she couldn't speak of.
But all she said was:
—Yes… I remember.
Clammie glanced at her from the side, with that mix of mischief and seriousness that defined her.
—Well? —she pressed, smiling just a little—. Do you believe in those things or not?
Gretta turned her gaze back to the stars, and in her eyes there was something that couldn't be explained.
—I think… there's more than what the books say —she replied at last, choosing her words with extreme care—. More than anyone is ready to admit.
Clammie watched her in silence, sensing that something deeper lay hidden beneath that response.
There was an unspoken weight in Gretta's eyes, a quiet struggle whispering between silences.
Without fully knowing why, Clammie felt the urge to move a little closer, to gently press against that invisible wall keeping her friend's words trapped.
—I know it sounds absurd —she said—. But… I have this feeling I've lived something I can't quite remember. Like a gap in my mind… and the certainty that something important is missing.
Gretta looked up instantly, a faint start breaking the forced calm in her expression.
It wasn't just what Clammie had said… it was the certainty in her voice, that precise sensation that couldn't be simple imagination.
For a moment, she thought about denying it, brushing it off.
But the restless brightness in Clammie's eyes made it impossible to utter any gentle lie.
—Clammie… —she murmured, barely above a whisper, unsure of what else to say.
The blonde girl smiled with a trace of quiet triumph, as if she had just confirmed her suspicions weren't entirely unfounded.
—I knew it… —she whispered, drawing closer with caution, as if even the air in the room could betray them—. You're hiding something too, aren't you?
For a moment, her voice faltered.
—Clammie, I... —But the knot in her throat was stronger, and the words died before they could escape.
Clammie didn't seem to notice—perhaps too caught up in the moment's emotion.
—But this… —she added, glancing around quickly, making sure no one could hear— this must stay between us, alright?
Gretta nodded silently, not looking away.
With swift, almost ritualistic movements, Clammie knelt beside her trunk, gently moving aside the folds of fabric covering the bottom. Her fingers searched through the layers until finally, she pulled something out: a thick volume bound in dark leather, its edges worn and a barely legible title etched on the cover: Beasts and Shadows.
She held it in her hands with a mix of reverence and nerves.
—This is the manuscript I told you about —she said in a low voice, as if simply speaking its name broke some sacred rule—. It belongs to my father… but I took it without his permission. No one at the Institute knows I have it.
Her fingers gently traced the faded letters.
—I found things in here that… shouldn't be true —she added, lifting her gaze to meet Gretta's—. But if they are… they explain too much.
Clammie turned the pages with trembling hands, stopping at a passage where the ink, though faded, remained perfectly legible.
—Here… —she whispered, and began to read aloud, as if afraid someone might hear from the shadows—. "The Bloodlines are as old as the first cities, divided by the purity of their origin. Ancients, Purebloods, Impure… and the Huestes, the remnants of what once were men."
Gretta watched in silence, her fingers tightening over the fabric of her dress.
—The Ancients… —Clammie continued, her eyes fixed on the pages— are the first, those not created but born with darkness in their blood. They are rare, absolutely immortal… and according to this, capable of altering the history of entire kingdoms without ever being named.
Anastasia...
That name crossed Gretta's mind like a forbidden whisper.
Why had her ancestor's name come to her just then?
—Then come the Purebloods —Clammie went on, her voice dropping lower—. Born directly from the Ancients. It says their presence alone commands respect, that they see in darkness as if it were broad daylight, and that they possess the strength of a hundred men. It claims... —she paused briefly— that they can even touch the minds of others without a single word.
Gretta turned her gaze toward the window, her mind caught in the unspoken truths of the night before.
The corner of her mouth quivered slightly.
—The Impure —Clammie continued— are the result when the Pure don't perform the full ritual. They're weaker, more dependent… more corrupted.
And finally… —she hesitated, as if the mere mention of the last group made her uncomfortable— the Huestes.
The word carried a different weight in the room.
Gretta inhaled deeply and raised her eyes, a soft gleam of moisture in them.
—They are neither… truly alive nor dead —she whispered—. Humans who never finished the transformation, trapped between instinct and madness. They feed out of necessity, but never fully recover their minds. They're used as tools… as soldiers.
Gretta felt a chill run down her spine.
Her mind, unwillingly, betrayed her with the image of the creature from that afternoon.
The skin stretched over bones, the vacant stare…
Professor Míriam.
Or what was left of her.
Something slid down her cheek, warmer and more flushed than usual.
Clammie closed the manuscript gently, but when she looked up, what she found in Gretta wasn't the distant composure she was beginning to get used to.
She saw her there, so still she seemed carved from moonlight and marble, her shoulders tense, her gaze lost in a point that wasn't truly in the room.
—Gretta… —she murmured, taking a few steps toward her.
Gretta blinked, and with that simple motion, the tears she had held back for hours began to fall—first silent, warm, and treacherous.
Then, as if a dam had broken, a sob escaped her lips—brief and stifled, but heavy with all she hadn't been able to say.
—All of this is… —she tried to speak, but her voice cracked—. I don't know how to… I don't know what to do...
Clammie knelt beside her, unsettled.
She watched her without knowing how to help, unable to fully grasp what kind of wound could lie behind such tears.
She hugged her awkwardly, like someone trying to comfort without understanding the pain.
—Gretta… it's alright, it was just a bad day. Too many classes, too many demands… —she tried to soothe her, not knowing that her words, though well-meaning, barely touched the surface of what truly hurt.
Gretta shook her head, unable to explain, unable to share what was truly weighing on her chest.
That impossibility—that helplessness of not being able to open her heart to the only friend she had—made her sob even harder.
She shook her head again, shutting her eyes tightly as the tears fell freely.
Her throat clenched so tightly that no words could pass.
She didn't want to talk.
She couldn't.
All she wanted in that moment was for everything to stop, for the weight crushing her chest to lift, even if just for a second.
More than anything, she longed to feel her mother's arms around her, like when the nights at home were too long and too cold.
—I'm sorry, Gretta… —Clammie whispered softly, resting her forehead gently on her friend's hair—. I… I didn't mean to upset you. I talk too much sometimes…
Clammie held her delicately, unable to fully comprehend, yet willing to stay. Even if she didn't know how to ease the pain.
And then, suspended in that quiet sorrow, it began.
A melody.
Soft, barely a whisper at first, as if the walls themselves carried it from some far-off corner.
Sweet, serene, woven with threads of nostalgia and warmth.
It wasn't joyful; it didn't try to impose false cheer—
It was simply calm, as if every note carried a silent promise: "I'm here… I'll be here as long as you need me."
Gretta felt the knot in her chest begin to loosen, little by little.
As if the melody, without uttering a single word, knew exactly where the pain was… and gave her permission to let it go.
Her tears didn't stop immediately, but her breathing began to slow, and the sobs softened, gentler now.
Clammie watched her, still unable to fully understand.
That strange song without a voice, that invisible melody drifting through the walls, seemed to wrap around her friend like an unseen cloak of comfort.
And though she didn't know where it came from or why it touched her so deeply, even Clammie began to feel soothed by it.
For a moment, in that moonlit room, there were no more questions or secrets.
Only music… and the quiet certainty that somehow, everything would be alright.
...
Hours later, when night had fully draped the walls of Áura Stella, the torches in the corridors barely cut through the darkness, and in that near-sacred silence, only Freyr's footsteps echoed faintly.
He wasn't headed anywhere in particular.
He walked because his mind found no rest.
Gretta's tear-streaked face, the one he hadn't been able to comfort, appeared before him again and again.
He knew it was part of the process, that her pain would eventually lead her to awaken what still slept inside her.
And yet, each sob he hadn't been able to soothe weighed heavier than any wound from battle.
But there was something else… something beyond Gretta.
The appearance of Míriam's hueste was a symptom—a crack in the security he had once believed unbreakable.
And cracks always heralded something worse.
His steps led him to the eastern gallery, where the students' rooms remained in deep silence.
That's when he felt it:
a presence that shouldn't be there.
Turning the corner, he saw it.
Dorian Velkan.
Standing beside one of the windows, hands clasped behind his back, posture as rigid as it was serene.
The moonlight outlined his figure as if he were part of the architecture itself.
Freyr approached with the ease of someone unafraid to be seen—but with the tension of someone who never lowered their guard.
—An unusually active night for the halls of Áura Stella —he murmured, his amber eyes locked on the professor's—. Might I ask what you're doing wandering about at this hour, Professor Velkan?
Dorian didn't flinch.
A barely visible smile curved his lips as he slowly turned his head.
—I might ask you the same, young Lucian —he replied with sharp courtesy, placing subtle mockery in the word young—. It's not exactly the hour or place for a gardener to be strolling about.
Freyr remained calm, though his gaze sharpened with suspicion.
—My duties don't end with daylight —he said evenly—. Sometimes, the most important things bloom in the dark.
Dorian smiled more fully now, though his steely gray eyes studied Freyr with a knowledge that didn't match his supposed role.
—Some of us suffer certain… medical conditions —he explained in a calm tone—. The day doesn't agree with me, and the night… well, night is my refuge.
I hope you won't think it improper that I seek a little peace within these walls while others sleep.
Freyr lifted his chin slightly.
No matter how hard he tried to read his mind, he found only silence.
Too clean.
Too polished.
"Either this man has the mind of a scholar… or he's a fraud far too well trained. And in this place, scholars don't usually roam the halls at night," he thought to himself.
—We all seek peace in our own ways —he finally said, though his voice carried a subtle edge—. Have a good night, Professor.
Dorian gave a slight bow, the smile still on his lips.
—Good night, gardener… May the flowers of this house remain well tended —he added, with a flicker of irony in his gaze before turning on his heel and vanishing into the corridor's shadows.
Freyr watched him disappear, his muscles tense, his eyes narrowed.
Something didn't fit.
Not at all.
And in the deepest part of his instinct, he knew:
The calm at Áura Stella wouldn't last much longer.