The air in the central house was thick with tension that night. Young Viscount Horas paced back and forth in his chambers, his mind racing. His wife, Lady Hana, had been unusually distant during dinner.
Worse, her gaze kept drifting toward Fenrir—the crippled servant who seemed to have captured her attention. Horas clenched his fists. He couldn't allow this to continue. Not only was his wife smitten, but the sacred ceremony was fast approaching, threatening to lay bare his own secrets.
He couldn't let Fenrir conduct the ceremony. The man needed to be removed—quietly, without rumors that might tarnish his reputation.
Hours after the household had gone to sleep, Horas summoned Fenrir. The servant arrived promptly, his demeanor as unflappable as ever despite the odd timing. Horas glared at him, standing stiffly in his opulent robe.
"Fenrir," he began, his voice low and commanding, "I have a task for you. Something urgent."
