The Lath Beneath

Haverford House – Kitchen, just past dawn

A damp hush pervades the kitchen. Fog curls against cold windowpanes. On the flagstone floor, Devlin Nightshade sits cross-legged—tall frame hunched in velvet shadows—hands offered palm-up. A crimson scrap of movement: a tiny woman in a silk-handkerchief dress, frozen mid-reach for a breadcrumb. Her eyes are bright with terror, her limbs taut as harpstrings. Somewhere within the yawning walls, a heartbeat of silence passes; the Lath are watching.

Your move, Devlin.