Duval Castle.
Now known as Monte Castle, its familiar stone walls stood silently outlined against the moonlight.
Murphy moved like a phantom through the familiar corridors, unnoticed by the guards.
He skillfully pushed open the carved oak door and stepped into what was once his bedroom.
The room's arrangement was exactly as he had left it; not even the angle of the desk had been changed.
The only difference was the young woman kneeling in the center of the room.
Margaret wore a simple white robe, her jet-black hair cascading down like a waterfall.
More than a year had passed, yet she still looked to be fifteen or sixteen. Her delicate face was like a work of art exquisitely carved by a Divine Spirit.
Her bare feet were spotless, her toenails painted with a silvery-white dye that made them look like pearls solidified from moonlight.
"Master, you've come." She raised her head, her ink-black pupils like the deepest night sky, and her voice carried an almost sacred reverence.
