The flickering oil lamp cast long, distorted shadows on the weathered faces huddled around the dusty table in the manor's study. Outside, a relentless wind howled through the skeletal branches of the ancient oaks, its mournful cry echoing the anxieties gnawing at Eleanor's heart.
Barnaby, his brow furrowed in concentration, traced a gnarled finger across a faded page in an ancient tome. The air hung heavy with the scent of aged paper and desperation. Days had bled into nights since their harrowing encounter with the Deucalion, and the weight of responsibility pressed heavily upon Eleanor. Michael, though recovering, remained pale and weak, a constant reminder of their precarious situation.
"So," Jacob finally broke the tense silence, his voice a low rumble, "this Nightingale Fox… you think it's real?"
