The doors of the reception hall opened, making a sound of polished wood grinding against stone that echoed like a low thrum through the expansive chamber. Edward Vistro entered with steps that were measured and rhythmic, his boots clicking softly against the marble floor.
The hall was a testament to the Vistro legacy. High above, the vaulted ceilings were lost in shadows, while sunlight fought its way through narrow, arched windows, casting long, dusty fingers of gold across the room. Banners of the Vistro house, the formidable wind falcon, hung motionless along the walls, their fabric heavy with the dust of decades. At the center of this architectural display of power stood a long table of dark mahogany, scarred by the pens and rings of generations of negotiators.
