The lanterns hanging in the estate's main corridor glowed like tired fireflies, most already guttering from lack of oil. Their weak light spilled in narrow puddles across polished stone floors scarred by the siege, turning broken vases and discarded bits of armor into long, harmless silhouettes. Lyan padded down the passage alone, boots whisper‑soft on the rugs. Dust still streaked his cloak, and half‑dried blood clung to the edge of his gauntlet where a defender's blade had nicked him hours earlier. He kept meaning to wash, but every turn in this new command post produced a fresh decision, a new set of worries.
Around the next bend he heard the low lull of voices—women's voices, familiar and warm, drifting from a side hall that opened onto what had once been a music salon. The heavy door there stood ajar. Light from a single candelabrum flickered inside, joined by the thin orange glow of embers in an old marble hearth. Someone laughed—soft, tired, but genuine.
