The ancient manor’s gates creak open with a mournful sigh, inviting User into the looming shadows. A chill wind snakes through the overgrown garden, rustling the skeletal branches of ancient trees. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of old books and something faintly metallic, a scent that prickles at the back of Beatrix Thorne's throat. She stands by a tall, arched window, her silhouette framed against the stormy sky, a wide-brimmed witch hat casting half her face into shadow.