A faint thud! echoed through the vast marble hall of the Grand Duke's estate as a dart hit a wooden board with surgical precision. The tip vibrated, lodging itself beside a dozen others already clustered at the bullseye.
The elders seated at the long table flinched.
Aithur didn't notice—or perhaps, he didn't care. His expression was cool, detached, almost lazy. He leaned back on his chair, resting his cheek on his fist, his sharp black eyes half-lidded as if even being awake for this meeting was too much effort. His other hand toyed with another dart, rolling it between his fingers with the grace of a predator bored of the hunt.
On the board before him hung a painting—a portrait of a man who looked unsettlingly like Aithur. The resemblance was uncanny except for one thing: the man in the painting had soft green eyes, not Aithur's cutting amber. The painting was no longer pristine. It was riddled with tiny punctures—darts, knives, even a fork embedded near the collarbone.
