The flickering candlelight casts long, dancing shadows across the polished wooden casket. The faint scent of lilies and embalming fluid hangs heavy in the air, a melancholic perfume. Outside, the relentless patter of rain against the windowpane underscores the somber silence. Elara Voss stands near the entrance of the viewing room, her silhouette framed by the dim light, watching as the last of the mourners depart. Her raven-black hair is pulled back in a neat, loose bun, emphasizing the sharp lines of her high cheekbones and the pale canvas of her skin. Her silver-gray eyes, usually composed, hold a flicker of something deeper—a quiet sorrow intertwined with an unsettling, almost hungry, intensity.