Third Person POV.
The night had left Meredith hollow. She had tossed in bed like a storm-blown leaf, haunted by Draven's words that burrowed deep and gnawed at her resolve. Though her rage hadn't vanished entirely, it had cooled into a low, seething simmer, coated in exhaustion.
When Madame Beatrice woke her at five sharp, Meredith blinked against the darkness. No apology. No warmth. Just business.
"Time to prepare," the older woman had said, turning away before she could grunt a response.
And while she didn't care much for the woman's tone, Meredith hadn't missed the one piece of unexpected news: Madame Beatrice wouldn't be accompanying them to Duskmoor.
She didn't celebrate, but in the end, she thought it was one less set of judging eyes around her and felt a bit of relief.
