The summons arrives without warning: I’m to present myself in the austere hall perched at the edge of the estate’s oldest wing. Yet as I cross the threshold, it’s still jarring to find the place so stark, bereft of grand tapestries or carved tributes, with only a somber crest etched high above a semicircle of worn chairs. Torches sputter, revealing the watchers scattered around, their dark robes parted here and there to accommodate the modern paraphernalia of contract law, typed legal documents, thick binders, laptops even, juxtaposed against centuries-old scrolls and rune-etched tablets. It’s a contradiction that instantly sets my nerves on edge.
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A hush weighs on the hall, broken only by the crackle of flame and the distant drip of melted wax. The air feels oddly thin, as though every
