"She didn't run," he muttered. "Not like this."
The room bore no sign of panic. No struggle. No broken chair tossed in haste. The protection ward Celeste had erected lay in perfect ruin, its shards of magic bleeding faint light into the floor. Someone, or something, had dismantled it from the inside.
He crouched near the stone altar built into the southern wall, fingers brushing soot aside to reveal a faint smear of red. Not paint. Not wax. Blood.
"Camille," he whispered, voice rough. "What did you do?"
Beckett pushed against the altar. It groaned, then shifted, revealing a hollow carved beneath the stone, no bigger than a book. Inside, carefully tucked into the space, was a sealed envelope. His breath caught.
It was parchment, old and thick, sealed with a blotch of dried blood, not wax, and inscribed in Camille's handwriting. Her scent clung faintly to it: smoke, cedar, and something darker now, like burnt sage.
