Frostwynd Halcendore House and the Parlour of Lost Evening Light

The parlour of Frostwynd Halcendore House holds a quiet that seems worn into the very fabric of the room. The scents of cooled tea, dried wool, and ink long settled in their bottles still faintly mingle in the still air. Upholstery curves inward where evening habits once repeated, and each object sits exactly as the last gesture left it.

The Soft-Spoken Routine of Ardeline Halcendore

Ardeline Halcendore, tutor of household scriptwork and arithmetic recitation, lived here with her cousin Torvan, a novice clasp-etcher whose seasonal income often faltered. Ardeline tended the figured-slate recess with steady discipline—quills trimmed to neat points, slates stacked by difficulty, blotters turned so old ink did not touch fresh pages. Before lessons she walked a measured loop, murmuring corrections she planned to give. But as Torvan’s pay dwindled and her own joints stiffened, her order began to loosen. Sheets lingered uncorrected. Ink rims hardened. Gradually the recess fell into the softened disarray that mirrored her thinning resolve.

The Hall Where Her Lost Rhythm First Shifted

Along the north corridor, Ardeline’s boots rest angled toward the wall, their laces rigid from neglect. Torvan’s incomplete clasp templates lie scattered near the baseboard, edges warped by moisture. A cracked lamp chimney sits beside a dust cloth she dropped mid-routine.

The Scullery Where Habit Gave Way to Stillness

Inside the scullery, mismatched mugs hold pale rings of dried tea. A chalk-lined kettle stands beside the smooth stone Ardeline pressed against her aching wrists. A linen apron hangs slack from its peg, the last crisp fold long dissolved.

At the landing’s end rests Ardeline’s final corrected slip—ink faint and trembling—beneath a shawl she never reclaimed. Torvan’s unfinished etching plate lies beside it. Frostwynd Halcendore House remains dim, folded inward, indefinitely abandoned.