Blood and Moonlight
The candles in the great hall of Thorne Estate burned with a peculiar stillness, their flames unbothered by the drafts that should have crept beneath the ancient doors. Lysander suspected his father had ordered even the fire to behave. Everything at these gatherings existed in service of Lord Thorne's control—the wine that never spilled, the music that swelled at precisely the right intervals, the marble floors polished to mirror the chandeliers until the whole room seemed to float in a suspended sea of gold light.
Lysander stood near a pillar carved with the sigil of his house, a coiled serpent devouring its own tail, and wished he could disappear into the stone behind him.
Below, in the sunken center of the hall, his father moved among the assembled lords like a conductor among a hushed orchestra. Lord Thorne wore black that night, unadorned save for a single ring of dark garnet, and yet he commanded more attention than any of the jeweled nobles orbiting him. Representatives from House Varga clustered near the west window, their pale faces arranged in expressions of polite hunger. Nearer the hearth, the delegation from House Corvin murmured among themselves, eyes flicking…
