The gravel crunched beneath Annabelle's feet like bones breaking under pressure.
S moved beside her so gracefully that you couldn't even hear the gravel beneath his feet.
The guards had stopped their approach, uncertainty written across their faces. Their hands were close to their weapons, ready for anything.
One was young, maybe twenty, with the kind of fresh-faced eagerness that showed he hadn't seen real violence yet.
The other was older, scarred, his eyes tracking S with the wariness of someone who recognized danger even when it wore a polite smile.
But it wasn't the guards who mattered.
The manor's main doors opened, and two figures emerged onto the entrance steps.
Joseph Meredith III moved with the careful dignity of someone who'd spent decades perfecting the art of looking important.
He was perhaps fifty, with dark hair going silver at the temples and a posture that came from a lifetime of people bowing when he entered rooms.
