Adrian Thornwood's Point Of View.
The ballroom was a corpse.
Crystal chandeliers lay in glittering heaps, their chains were snapped. The marble floor, once polished enough to reflect a man’s face was cracked and slick with blood. The air stank of scorched velvet, gunpowder, and wet dog.
I stood in the middle of it, boots crunching over glass, chest heaving. My suit was shredded, tie long gone, white shirt half unbuttoned and soaked crimson at the shoulder where claws had found me earlier.
I rolled my neck, let the shift ripple just under my skin, and roared into the darkness.
“Come down!” My voice cracked through the ruined hall like a whip. “Whoever’s up there, come down and show your face! You have had your fun, you torched the whole place, you slaughtered my family, my people. So
