The garden was a picture of calculated elegance—wild, yet restrained.
Towering oaks lined the outer ring of the circular space, their gnarled limbs casting long, cool shadows over the vibrant underbrush.
Petals of crimson, violet, and gold spilled like tears from flowerbeds cultivated to appear untamed.
The air was rich with the heady scent of blooming night lilies and duskroot orchids—native to Opalcrest, but intentionally arranged by someone with a refined palate for balance.
At the garden's heart sat a round table made of pale whitewood, polished to a mirror sheen. Four chairs encircled it, though only two were occupied.
Heinau Opalcrest sat on one side—his black hair neatly combed back, his equally black eyes as still and unreadable as ink in an undisturbed well. His posture was straight, almost stiff.
Though dressed in regal attire, a tailored coat of navy and silver threads, he looked like a man ill at ease in his own home.
