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CORVAN
As I approach, the doors silently swing open before I even touch them.
I walk through without hesitation.
What point is there in being cautious, when I already know they’re expecting me?
Besides, I want to see my little brother. It’s been so long since I’ve spoken with him.
I want to see how he’s grown; what he’s become.
Whether he’s salvageable.
This is indeed the Great Hall of Deignar Castle, also known as the throne room, where the duke sits when he attends to his official business. It’s smaller than the great hall in my own castle, but the decor and furnishings are much more elaborate; all gilt and velvet and polished floors and ornate carvings.
Silence hangs over the room, thick and oppressive. But I can hear the presences within it. They shift and move in their silks. They breathe and tense.
I can smell them.Humantraces. Things I know so very well.Sweat and cloying fragrance.
Woodsmoke. Ash. Incense.
Decay. Old, dried blood.
I can hear their pulses. Steady, predictable.Mortal.
I can smell their blood as it percolates through their arteries and veins. I know exactly how to get it.
They can’t escape my attention.
They’re like prey.
There’s a raised platform at the far end, upon which sits an imposing throne, with armrests and legs carved into a lion’s paws. Atop the backrest sits a likeness of a lion’s head, teeth bared in a vicious snarl.
I know this, because I’ve seen that throne before. I can see it now, silhouetted through a gauzy curtain that obscures the figure sitting upon it, turning them into a dark shadow.
Why hide?
How ridiculous.
I walk right up to the dais and rip the curtain away, revealing the figure within.
Ansar stares back at me.
For a moment, we’re both quiet.
My brother has…changed.
Ansar Talavarra-Duthriss is as tall as I am. He’s filled out—no longer the slender, delicate looking youth I remember.
He has a lean, powerful physique. His complexion is deeply tanned—he’s obviously been spending time outdoors. His hair—as dark as his mother’s—has grown long, curling over his shoulders.
He’s pierced his ears in the fashion of Padra—with priceless jewels befitting a son of House Talavarra.
Set in gold, a perfectly symmetrical obsidian pearl hangs from each earlobe, its surface gleaming with iridescence. The pearls are perfectly tear-shaped and almost identical.
Incredibly rare. Unfathomably precious. Such a pair could buy a minor lord’s castle.
And curiously, his eyes, once deep brown, now exude a faint emerald-hued glow.
