The corridors of the Vernhardt manor were long, drafty, and filled with thousands of secrets, but Varon knew how to move through them like a shadow. As Verona's twin, he had always possessed a certain restlessness, an energy that he usually drowned in expensive wine or buried under a mask of bored aristocratic indifference. But today, the air in the house was different.
Varon had been following them at a distance, his father and Liera. He had seen the way the Duke's fingers had clamped onto their sister's arm, bruising the skin. He had followed them down to the forbidden level, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He stood now at the turn of the stone stairs, hidden by the deep gloom of a curtain, watching through a narrow gap, he saw it all. He saw his father shove Liera onto the cold, damp floor. He saw the hooded man hovering like a vulture. He heard the Duke speak of "obedience" and "adjustments."
