The administrative office of Mourning Manor was a chamber defined by cold stone and the weight of history. It was here that the syndicate’s fate was decided, and today, the atmosphere was pressurized with a dangerous, electric tension. Gillian stood behind the massive oak desk, his silhouette cast long against the wall by the dying embers in the fireplace. His movements were precise, devoid of wasted energy, yet there was a tremor in his hands that he struggled to conceal. He had spent the morning reviewing the inventory of their resources, and the reality of his declining health was becoming impossible to ignore. The curse was not merely a weight; it was a predator, slowly consuming the architecture of his body.
He looked up as the heavy door creaked open, his eyes narrowing. He did no
