The grand dining hall of Mourning Manor was an cavernous space where the weight of silence often felt heavier than the antique chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. A long mahogany table stretched through the center of the room, polished to such a high sheen that it reflected the flickering candlelight like a dark, liquid mirror. Gillian sat at the head of the table, his posture rigid. He was still physically recovering from the harrowing bout of illness that had left him bedridden, and the effort of maintaining his composure required every ounce of his dwindling strength. His skin remained unnervingly pale, and his movements were measured, careful to conceal the tremors that still lingered in his hands.
To his right, Ghea sat with a poise that was almost unnatural. She wore a simple, h
