The great council room of the Carson establishment was a chamber built for power. A single, colossal table stretched down its length, polished to a mirror shine.
Sunlight struggled to pierce the tall, stained-glass windows, leaving the room in a state of perpetual, serious twilight. Seated around the table were the family's most trusted advisors and its wealthiest investors, their faces grim and expectant.
At the far end of the room, huddled together like a flock of vultures, were the pamphleteers, their eyes gleaming, their quills poised over fresh sheets of parchment, hungry for a story to sell.
The heavy doors at the head of the room swung open. The Dowager Duchess Elena entered, and the low murmur of conversation immediately died. She moved with a regal grace that defied her age, her back straight, her head held high. By her side, a step behind, was her grandson, Eric, his expression somber and resolute. He was a silent, solid presence, a clear signal of the new order.
