The morning sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of the Blackwood dining hall, but the light felt cold, unable to cut through the suffocating tension that clung to the room. The air was thick with the unsaid, a heavy residue of the previous night’s depravity.
Rowan, Soran, and Cauro sat in their usual seats, but their typical effortless arrogance was replaced by a strange, stiff silence. No one looked at each other. The clink of silverware against porcelain sounded like gunshots in the quiet room. Isla moved around the table with a grace that was almost too fluid, setting down plates of steaming food. She was the only one who seemed composed, her face a mask of domestic serenity.
As she stepped back, a tiny, wicked smirk played on her lips. For a fleeting second, her eyes didn't
