The east wing hall had been prepared for Isolde's first ritual under her new freedom.
Low candles burned in clusters, casting a warm glow. Black rose petals were scattered across the floor and cushions arranged in a wide, comfortable circle.
No grand altar stood in the space tonight—only soft lighting, the scent of roses, and a single high-backed chair reserved for Aiden at the northern edge. The atmosphere felt almost gentle.
Women arrived in small groups. Gowns flowed loosely. Silver chains and necklaces openly displayed their growing fractures.
The cracks had become impossible to ignore—delicate silver veins that caught the candlelight and shimmered like living frost. Some women touched their own chains absently, a mixture of wonder and quiet fear in their eyes.
Cat and Lulu entered together, arms linked. They chose cushions side-by-side. Bri and Luna sat nearby, their touches easier now, less guarded.
