CANDLES GUTTERED in their sconces, bending their flames as if even fire bowed to him.
Icarus Duskbane sat at the head of the vast dining table—storm-eyed, silent, every inch the sovereign of this crumbling Manor. In the weak glow, his scar looked deeper, haunting, terrorizing, as if it were alive and it was telling a horrifying tale, a fissure carved by lightning, and it invited me to touch it. I stayed. I sat nine seats away, as custom dictated, because the ghosts of etiquette still haunted these halls even when nothing else holy remained. It stayed.
Even when there were no more morals left between us.
The long Oak board between us was set with polished silver, covered dishes, and crystal flashing red and gold. Abundance for two souls who barely ate. He lifted his goblet first. “Claret
