The heavy doors closed behind Trafalgar with a dull echo. His eyes swept across the hall, a place he hadn't seen in years yet remembered too well.
The dining hall stretched wide, dominated by the long blackwood table that gleamed under the chandelier's pale glow. Every seat was filled. Every gaze turned toward him.
At the center sat Valttair. His once long, unkempt hair had been cut short and combed neatly for the occasion. Even on the eve of his brother's funeral, the head of House Morgain couldn't afford to appear anything less than pristine.
To Valttair's right sat Maeron—a towering wall of muscle, 2.22 meters of cold presence. Trafalgar met his stare without flinching, his jaw tightening. 'The bastard who put Mayla in that state. I won't look away.'
On Valttair's left was Lysandra. Earlier, she had warned him to be careful. Now, seated so close to their father.
Around the table, the familiar figures of venom and disdain:
