Vyan stood in the ballroom, a glass of wine in his hand, listening to Ronan's complaints about their grandfather's increasing pressure as his sixteenth birthday loomed closer. Meanwhile, Ronan sipped on a vibrant, fruity drink, his expression reflecting his recent worries.
"Some people never change—" Vyan started muttering, rolling his eyes. But before he could finish, a sudden tightness gripped his chest. It wasn't just any discomfort—it was the familiar, unwelcome pang he felt when dark magic was nearby.
His gaze darted across the grand room, scanning the finely dressed guests and the twinkling chandeliers, searching for the source. But everything appeared normal—no shadowy figures, no sinister auras. Maybe it was his fever acting up again, still lingering from earlier in the week.
"Vyan, are you alright?" Ronan's voice pulled him back, his face lined with concern.
