Molan and Bernice climbed into the carriage, ready to leave for Duskhelm Castle, the chill of uncertainty riding with them.
"You know," Bernice began, adjusting her cloak, "if we arrive at the castle without our Lord, rumours will start flying."
"I know," Molan replied calmly. "But we'll just go for now and wait for him. If King Draelos questions us—which he will—we'll say our Lord is preparing to come. Nothing more, nothing less."
After some hours, the Carriage rolled through the gates of Duskhelm Castle. When they finally arrived, both of them stepped down, their boots clicking against the cobblestone. As they crossed the threshold into the castle's grand halls, Bernice suddenly paused.
"Do you feel that?" she asked.
Molan inhaled sharply. "Yes. I know that demonic scent from anywhere… Seraphina. She's here."
A small, almost dangerous smile played on Bernice' lips.
"You know her?"
"Yes, in fact, I do," Bernice said. "We go way back. She's... an old friend."
