Mark's chamber was bathed in golden light from the sinking sun, its long rays spilling through the tall glass windows and striking the polished floor like broken shards. Despite the richness of the room—the silk curtains, the neatly stacked books, the glittering golden candelabras—the air felt strangely cold, stagnant, as though the very walls held their breath around its young master.
At the center of the room sat Mark, perched on a dark oak chair before his desk. His blond hair caught the sunlight like strands of pale fire, yet the sharp shadows under his eyes robbed him of warmth. His thin fingers danced across parchment, the scratching of his quill the only sound. A half-finished letter lay beneath his hand, its words written in neat, calculated strokes, each one laced with careful venom.
