Silas Vayne—no, Zharokath—moved through the grand ballroom with the calm, measured grace that was expected of a man of his stature. His sharp, calculating gaze swept over the lavish surroundings, noting the opulence of the Cox estate, the glittering chandeliers, the polished marble floors, and the carefully curated gathering of influential figures. He observed it all with mild interest, but beneath the mask of composure, he felt nothing but disdain.
'Humans and their need to display wealth and power, as if it means anything,' he mused, his thoughts laced with contempt. 'These creatures believe that money and influence elevate them, make them important. How foolish.'
