In the luxurious sanctuary of Duchess Clementine's personal paradise, she sat regally upon an expensive sandalwood bench before a wide golden mirror.
She studied her reflection with quiet satisfaction, beautiful, regal, untouched by time. Just as she had been in her prime. Adelaide was dead in tge coffin, and not a single soul in this world came close to matching her beauty and grace.
It was in that self-satisfied moment that a shadow slipped into the room.
"Duchess. We have bad news."
The voice was feminine, hushed, and laced with dread.
Clementine's eyes remained on the mirror a beat longer before she turned, her brows knitting together like a storm gathering on the horizon.
"Speak," she said.
The cloaked figure hesitated, a rare thing for a shadow guard. Her gloved hands curled at her sides as she forced the words out.
"The Young Lord is missing. His shadow guards were slaughtered, every last one of them, by the illegitimate bastard."
