Hadeon stood like a man at the edge of a hunt, not a party.
His voice dropped an octave, still pleasant and polished, but with an undertone of hunger. The kind that didn't feed on food or sex or even revenge.
It fed on unraveling the strong.
Hadeon lifted his glass again, not to drink, but to admire the frost lining the rim. Like the last breath of something beautiful before it broke.
Then, with the practiced ease of a monarch without a crown, he turned toward the gathered crowd—nobles draped in velvet and power, eyes too still to be innocent—and let his words fall like a curse dressed in silk.
"Let's see how good all of you are," he said, every syllable laced with promise and poison. The mansion's enchantments carried his voice to every corner, but it felt intimate, as if he were whispering into the ears of each sick mind present.
