The last rays of the setting sun streamed through the windowsill of the study in Monte Castle, plating the room in a soft, golden light.
Murphy sat quietly in a custom-made oak wheelchair. The backrest and armrests were lined with thick, deep-red velvet cushions, and a matching woolen blanket was draped over his lap, reaching his waist.
Compared to the pale, frail man he had been eight years ago, his complexion was now calm, even slightly ruddy. His serene gaze was fixed on the gradually dimming sky outside, as if an invisible curtain separated him from the world.
Aurora sat beside him in a high-backed armchair, holding an unfolded letter.
The stationery was of fine quality, its edges stamped with a faint golden Purple Eagle crest.
