River Terrace

A narrow stone terrace running along the river’s edge, its aged flagstones worn smooth by decades of foot traffic from catering staff and estate workers. The air carries the sharp mineral tang of river water mixed with the faint metallic bite of the adjacent railway bridge and the sour warmth of spilled cooking oil drifting from the catering section’s open service hatches. Weak lamplight from industrial floodlights bleeds across the terrace’s edge, casting long, wavering shadows where the stone meets the riverbank’s wet cobblestones below. The terrace overlooks sluggish dark water where algae blooms swirl near the surface, their neon sheen barely visible through the ripples. The space is utilitarian—stacked plastic crates, upturned kegs, and discarded stainless steel trays hint at the catering crew’s hasty retreat—all underscored by the distant hum of the estate’s generators and the occasional metallic groan of the expanding Skarasen’s approach. Here, the Brigadier moves with restricted stride, his torch beam slicing through the damp as he scans the terrace’s length for any sign of Broton’s unnatural stillness.