The air in the main residence hall was thick, heavy with the scent of old wood and the lingering ozone of the recent ritual. Gillian paced the length of the hall, his boots striking the polished stone with a rhythm that sounded like a funeral drum. The peace he had felt after the transfer with Ghea had evaporated, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity that focused his rage into a single, lethal point. He held a small, wax-sealed scroll in his hand, a document he had intercepted from the manor’s courier network just an hour ago. It was a missive addressed to the leaders of the Northern Syndicate, the very faction that had been circling Mourning Manor like vultures for months.
He stopped in front of the grand fireplace, his shadow looming large against the tapestries that depicted the history
