Night weighed heavily on the ducal mansion with an almost oppressive solemnity. Outside, the gardens remained immaculate, the fountains murmured steadily, and the guards patrolled in disciplined silence. Nothing on that facade suggested chaos. Nothing revealed that, behind the tall, illuminated windows, a grave crisis had just crossed the main doors. Inside the Duchess's private study, however, the air was stiff, dense, as if even the walls awaited her reaction.
The room was spacious and luxurious without vulgar excesses. Every object had been chosen to communicate ancient power: rare tapestries, imported marble, dark, hand-carved wood, and portraits of ancestors that seemed to judge anyone who entered. A large map of Arven occupied the central wall, marked with discreet golden pins and almost invisible lines drawn in ink. Seated before it, in a high-backed chair, was the Duchess.
She disliked nighttime interruptions.
