Willow West knew exactly why the old master had summoned her home.
The West family's ancestral home was in an exclusive, affluent neighborhood where every inch of land was worth a fortune.
It was a magnificent, traditional Chinese-style estate, steeped in an air of classic simplicity.
At the end of a long, waterside corridor, a slender figure knelt on the cold, bluestone floor, her back ramrod straight.
It was raining in Aethelgard again.
A fine, drizzling rain, like needles and thread, lacked the gentleness of a spring shower.
Instead, it carried a chill that felt like icy knives against the skin.
She knelt motionless before the corridor, as frail as a young tree bent low by the wind and rain.
Pitifully weak, an easy target.
The man stood at the entrance to the corridor, his eyes catching sight of the frail figure in the distance.
His gaze darkened.
