The gates of Wykes Manor stood silently under the torchlight, the family crest engraved in dark metal watching Damon like an old acquaintance who knew too much and asked too little.
He approached unhurriedly.
The bluish spear was strapped to his back, partially wrapped in leather so as not to draw immediate attention, but still impossible to ignore to trained eyes. The cold it emanated contrasted with the gentle warmth of the night.
The gate opened before he even needed to announce his presence.
The butler—a tall, thin man with impeccable posture and gray hair styled in an austere updo—waited on the other side. His eyes first landed on Damon's face… then on the spear.
For a fraction of a second, something passed through his expression. Not surprise. Not fear.
Recognition.
He gave a slight nod.
Damon returned it with another, equally brief.
Nothing was said.
The butler simply stepped back a step, clearing the way.
Damon entered.
