Hours ago.
The morning hit the Nyxilith estate like a Pinterest board having a spiritual awakening.
The front gates—those tall-ass black things laced with silver filigree and probably cursed in three languages—their intricate designs glowing under the kiss of the early sun.
Beyond them stretched the absurdly long driveway—seriously, someone could run a marathon on this thing and still not reach the house—so damn long it could host a Netflix original series. Lined with ancient trees, their leaves whispering secrets to the breeze, the path led to the estate, where the golden morning light bathed the entire compound like a royal blessing. The mansion itself? The place looked like something out of a billionaire's fever dream.
The sun slid across it like butter on a griddle, hitting the mirrors of the estate in sparkly little beams that screamed, "Yeah, we bougie."
