Charlotte pushed herself slowly off the chair, her bones creaking in protest as she rose with a deliberate kind of slowness that made Williams grind his teeth.
Her wrinkled hands gripped the edge of the armrest for balance, her joints stiff from age and time, but there was a grace to her, an unhurried elegance that only came with years of holding power and wielding it wisely.
Dust floated lazily in the beam of sunlight filtering through the lone, cracked window, settling softly over old furniture and timeworn rugs.
Charlotte began to walk, each step as slow and deliberate as a metronome set to its lowest tempo. She moved toward a worn-out bookshelf that had clearly seen better days. Its edges were chipped, some of its shelves bowed in the middle from the weight of ancient tomes and dusty potion bottles filled with murky liquids. A faint scent of dried herbs and old parchment clung to the air like a second skin, mixing with the earthy aroma of burning wood.
