The conservatory of the Dravik estate was a masterpiece of Victorian ironwork and hyper-modern reinforced glass, a soaring cathedral of greenery that felt less like a garden and more like a curated jungle. It was here, amidst the rare orchids that bloomed only once a century and ferns that pulsed with a faint glow, that Feralia had decided to hold her "proper" afternoon tea.
Amara sat on the edge of a wrought-iron chair that felt suspiciously like it had been designed for someone with significantly more natural padding, or perhaps a skeletal structure reinforced by supernatural density. Before her stood a table draped in lace so fine it looked like it had been woven by spiders on a diet of moonbeams. The tea set was eggshell porcelain, so thin Amara was terrified that a firm grip would reduce it to white dust.
