Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1GBF5VSMJA7KCQDXRC3FZR

Rain glazed Blackthorn Hall as mourners gathered beneath weeping eaves. Lady Wren arrived late, her gloves damp, expression carefully unreadable. Inside, candles trembled, casting long shadows across ancestral portraits. The butler announced dinner, though no one admitted feeling hungry. At table's head sat Sir Alistair, pale, silent, and rigid. His wine remained untouched, dark as the storm outside tonight. When thunder struck, Lady Wren noticed blood beneath his cuff. No one screamed immediately; shock settled first, cold and deliberate. Then Sir Alistair toppled sideways, dead before silver touched floor. Somewhere above, a door clicked shut with practiced gentleness.