The dining hall of House Thorne was made to impress. A long table of dark oak stretched nearly the entire chamber, polished to a mirror sheen. Candelabras burned steadily above, casting the stone walls in a golden glow that did little to warm the tension in the air.
Noel stepped inside with measured steps, the sound of his boots echoing faintly on the stone floor. He didn't carry a weapon—this wasn't a battlefield, at least not one of steel. Still, every glance turned toward him felt sharper than a blade.
At the head of the table sat Albrecht Thorne, eyes as steady and cutting as ever. To his right sat Serina, Sylvette's mother—poised, elegant, composed, her calm hiding calculation. Across from her was Mirelle, the second wife, her face hard, her lips pressed into a line that seemed to dare someone to provoke her.
Sylvette was already seated further down, back straight, her composure almost too perfect. When Noel entered, her pale eyes flicked to him briefly before lowering again.
