The estate's ancient halls echoed with Jolthar's footsteps as he made his way through the winding corridors.
The meeting with the patriarch had left him with a bitter taste, and the weight of the conversation still lingered in his mind. He didn't need to stay here any longer—there was nothing for him within these walls except memories he would rather forget.
And the fact that they now showed him affection made him hate them more. It would have been better if they acted the same way as before.
As he turned a corner, a figure stepped into his path.
Isorabella stood before him, her light-green robes swaying gently as the faint draft of the corridor brushed past. Her expression was a mixture of concern and hesitation, her usual poise faltering. She blocked his path without a word at first, her lips pressed into a thin line as if debating whether to speak.
Finally, she broke the silence.
