The halls of House Berreth, at a time was alive with the clamor of coin and ambition, but now it only echoed with whispers and rusted pride.
Dust clung to the corners like old secrets.
The servants walked slower, as if the air itself had grown heavy with the scent of failure.
The lamps were dimmer. Even the fire in the hearth crackled like it feared being extinguished next.
In the grand study, Lord Halric Berreth sat stiff-backed in his carved obsidian chair, trying to look like the man he used to be.
His clothes still bore the trappings of wealth—dark velvet, gold clasps—but the tailoring betrayed a hurried hand.
He hadn't slept.
His eyes were bloodshot, and his fingers shook where they gripped the arms of his chair.
Across from him, calm as the eye of a storm, Velrosa Lionarde sipped from a thin porcelain cup.
