In the dead of night, amidst the hushed stillness of an enormous, sprawling graveyard, a manor stood like an ominous relic of forgotten times.
The Large building loomed with crooked spires and gnarled gargoyles jutting from its weather-worn walls.
Ivy crawled across its stone skin like veins on a corpse, and thick mist curled at its foundation like breath exhaled from the underworld.
Yet, behind its warped doors and beneath the cobwebbed chandeliers, the atmosphere was strangely warm, almost absurdly so.
Inside, by the fireplace, three figures sat in a cozy drawing room with tea, knitting, and a deceptive sense of peace.
"So, Madame Cross"
A calm feminine voice echoed,
"Why didn't you attend the Grand Ball tonight?"
The elf dropped her knitting needles with a soft clink. Her amber eyes narrowed.
"Well, priestess, not everyone enjoys the company of that old hag Selaphiel."
The priestess chuckled.
"Old hag? Aren't you quite old yourself?"
