Morning came pale and thin over the Langston mansion. The marble floors still bore the marks of the night’s battle: scorched wood, shattered glass, the scent of smoke. Outside, the city went about its business as if nothing had happened, but inside, a war was quietly taking root.
Isabella hadn’t slept. She sat by the window of the east wing, watching the dawn creep across the skyline. Her hands trembled when she lifted her coffee cup. The previous night’s images replayed endlessly: the sigil, the assassins, the impossible light pouring from her husband’s skin.
She could still hear his words: They’ve remembered me.
Her father’s voice broke her trance. “You’ve brought ruin to this house.”
Alexander Langston stood in the doorway, immaculate in his dark suit, eyes cold. Behind him loomed t
