Lucien's penthouse was a fortress: walls of obsidian marble, silent guards posted like statues. He placed Aurelia in a suite dominated by a four-poster bed draped in crimson velvet. "Tonight, you rest. Tomorrow, you learn your role." He turned to leave and paused.
"Who are you, truly?" she whispered. He stopped at the door, shoulders rigid. "A man with power. And a debt to collect." When the door clicked shut, Aurelia pressed her palm to the glowing sigil on her wrist her birthright and her only hope. In darkness, she summoned her ancestors' spirits. Their voices swirled: "Trust nothing. Not even blood."