The private room on the second floor of the Golden Swan was a sanctuary of illicit luxury, hidden away from the bustling, noisy activities below. Heavy velvet curtains were drawn tight against the evening chill, shutting out the world. The only light came from a pair of ornate oil lamps that cast a warm, flickering glow across the room, creating an intimate, secretive atmosphere. The air was thick with the scent of expensive wine, beeswax polish, and the palpable tension of waiting.
Prince Liam sat in a high-backed armchair upholstered in deep red silk. His legs were crossed, his posture relaxed but alert, like a panther waiting to pounce. He held a crystal goblet in his hand, swirling the dark red liquid slowly, hypnotically. He watched the vortex in the glass, mesmerized by the color of blood.
