Riven's Pov
Sylas opened the door with his usual lazy glide, and three figures stood waiting on the other side. The space outside the doorway seemed to shift immediately, as if the weight of authority clung to the air just by their presence.
They weren't equal—anyone with half a brain could see that. The two on the right and left were simply muscle. Shadows meant to look menacing, sharp jaws, their eyes sharp and constantly scanning, the kind of demons who didn't speak unless ordered to. Their clothing was muted black, no flashy symbols, which told me they weren't noble guards. Mercenaries, most likely—loyal because of a contract or gold, not blood.
The one in the middle, though—he was the reason the air in the room suddenly felt tighter. He stepped inside with measured movements, not hurried, not dragging, but the perfect balance of efficiency and control. His presence filled the entryway with the unspoken declaration: I am the important one here.
