A fog cleared in my mind as the maid's words echoed through the study. Memories from my first encounter with the mysterious woman in the frost-bitten woods of the North rushed back. I have a daughter serving in the South, the old woman had whispered to me through her cracked, parchment-like lips while handing over the black book. She works as a humble servant in the Keep.
I stared at the trembling girl standing before us, her fingers clutching the feather duster so tightly her knuckles were white.
"What is your name?" I asked, my voice softening as I took a deliberate step toward her.
"Grace, Your Highness," she answered gently, dropping her head in a deep, respectful bow. "Just Grace."
I nodded slowly, a subtle sense of relief washing over me. This one is trustworthy, I told myself, recognizing the identical silver-grey hue of her eyes—the unmistakable mark of the Northern witch lineage.
