The Great Hall of the Silver-Crest was a masterpiece of opulence—gilded sconces, overflowing tables of imported wine, and the murmurs of noble families who believed they were untouchable. Silas sat at the dais, his knuckles white as he gripped his goblet, his eyes darting toward the arched entryway every time the heavy doors creaked. He was a man held together by sheer, frantic willpower, his mind frayed by weeks of sleepless nights and the persistent, nauseating scent of river silt that seemed to cling to the upholstery.
Julian sat to his right, a shell of a man. His gaze was fixed on the center of the hall, where a single, empty chair remained, positioned perfectly between him and Sienna. He had not touched his food. He kept whispering to the empty air, his lips moving in a silent, ja
