The mahogany coffin hit the polished marble floor with a sound like a thunderclap, the sheer weight of it sending a shockwave through the The Sky Citadel’s Spire. The exquisite glass walls rattled in their frames, and the crystal chandeliers chimed a dissonant, frantic melody.
For a heartbeat, the Spire was deathly silent. Then, the smell hit—a cloyingly sweet scent of funeral incense mixed with the metallic, rotting tang of something that had once been alive.
Hunter Bailey—the man known as Master Nash—watched the horror unfold on the guests' faces with the delighted expression of a child opening a birthday gift. He leaned back against the coffin, crossing his arms over his pristine white suit. "What’s the matter?" he asked, his voice smooth and oily. "Don't you like my gift? Don’t worry
