The transition was seamless.
The great hall of House Morgain was already alive when Trafalgar entered—full, yet unnervingly quiet. Long stone walls rose high above, etched with the family's crest and veined with dark metal that caught the torchlight in muted silver. Circular tables filled the chamber, arranged with deliberate hierarchy: outer rings for collateral branches and distant bloodlines, inner circles for those who still mattered.
Food had been prepared. Wine poured. Everything necessary for the appearance of unity.
At the center stood the table that mattered.
The heirs' table.
Nine seats.
That fact registered immediately.
Once, Trafalgar's place had been an afterthought—set apart, misaligned, positioned just far enough to remind him that he didn't truly belong. A visual cue reinforced at every gathering.
Not this time.
