Candles offer dim light in the sole guest room of a young noble's residence. The lesser lord spared no expense in decorating the large house. Every item was chosen with care, yet the illumination from elaborate sconces did little to elicit a response from the room's occupant.
A woman sits at a writing table, quietly staring into the dancing flame of a single candle. Glancing down at her capable hands she frowns briefly, then pulls a tiny cord from her satchel. Barely the length of her smallest finger, she holds it into the flame where it sparks to life. The fuse burns predictably. With a somber smile she watches it reach her fingertips. The woman drops what is left onto the table where it fizzles to the end and dies. Narrowing her eyes she thinks. I'll need more. She stands and looks out the window to the west, then peers north. A lot more.