The Dorne estate wasn't supposed to be this quiet.
Even in decay, noble homes usually held onto their noise—maids whispering, boots on cobblestone, arguments behind doors. But here?
Only the croaking of distant toads.
The suck of damp earth.
And the sound of breathing.
Felix trudged down the flooded path with a lantern held high, boots half-submerged in peat water. Fireflies blinked along the edges of the old mangrove groves, but even they seemed hesitant to linger near the main manor.
It had taken days of travel to return home, and longer still to convince the housekeeper to even open the gate.
He hadn't told anyone—not even Lucian—that the Dorne estate had been cut off from the Academy for weeks.
No letters.
No replies.
No trade shipments.
Just silence.
And rot.
"Felix Dorne," a voice croaked behind him.
He spun, nearly slipping into the murk.
