"The lord will see you."
Inside, the estate was grand, yet suffocating. The architecture was designed to impress, to overwhelm visitors with its wealth, but the atmosphere was not one of power. It was one of weariness. The carpets muffled their footsteps, the chandeliers cast dim light over walls lined with heavy bookshelves and thick drapes. The place was too quiet, the silence holding weight.
A steward led them through a winding hall to a large study. The room smelled of parchment, aged wood, and faintly of burnt wax. Heavy curtains were drawn, allowing only slivers of daylight to creep through, painting jagged shadows across the stone floor.
Lord Alvane sat in a high-backed chair, his fingers drumming against the armrest. He was a man in his late forties, once strong, now worn down by something unseen. His sharp features were lined with sleepless nights, his neatly combed dark hair threaded with silver. He did not look like a man at ease.
