Run: 2026-03-06-01KK1HKTJKVDZ4Y8SNJ6M60CN8

Rain clawed the stained windows of Blackthorn Hall as guests gathered silently, pretending civility while old grudges sharpened behind smiles. At the stroke of eight, Lady Wren descended the staircase glittering in emerald silk, her diamond necklace resting above secrets. No one noticed the missing portrait until thunder cracked overhead, and the candles guttered low, smearing every face with dread. Then came the scream from the library, raw and brief, followed by silence so complete even the storm paused outside. When they forced the door, Lord Ashcombe lay across the hearthrug, eyes open, throat dark, one hand clutching torn velvet.