A few days after Ophelia had been torn from her father's house another house slumbered in silence. But unlike Darren's world of polished marble and sparkling lights, this mansion was swallowed in shadow, its sprawling gardens overgrown, its high walls cloaked in ivy. The moonlight barely touched its stones, as though the night itself feared to trespass.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and old wood, carrying the weight of decades of secrets. In the grand study at the heart of the house, only one lamp burned, its glow dim and golden, casting long shapes on the floor. Behind the desk sat a figure.
He was little more than a silhouette against the faint fire smoldering in the hearth, a man wrapped in shadow so deep it seemed part of him. His voice, when he spoke, was gravel-soft, cracked with age but laced with authority that could silence armies.
"Report."
