The music in the Underworld had long since lost its charm. The drums still pounded, the dancers still spun, and the torches still crackled with the same steady rhythm—but for Zyran, it all blended into one long, agonizing stretch of noise.
He now sat in the shadows, tucked away in one of the darker corners of the grand hall. From there, Zyran could see everything—the dancers twirling under golden firelight, the nobles laughing over goblets of wine, the jeweled glow of the Underworld's feast in full swing.
They couldn't see him, of course. Not unless he wanted them to. His chin rested lazily against his palm as he leaned against the cold stone wall, half-watching, half-counting the seconds until this ridiculous celebration finally ended.
He wasn't supposed to be here for pleasure anyway. No, Zyran had a purpose tonight. He was waiting for his father—the almighty King of the Underworld—to finally stop entertaining the sycophants and give him an audience.
