In the mornings, I get on the carriage that Killion so generously provides—though "carriage" feels like too noble a term for the rickety box on wheels dragged by miserable-looking beasts—and head straight to his mansion.
The mansion itself is infuriating. Not just because it's excessive for someone like him, but because it's familiar. Every day I walk into that house, I'm reminded of the Emberthorn estate, and the thought is enough to twist my stomach. It feels like a ghost of home, warped and inverted. The arches are the same, the sunlight filtered through diamond-shaped panes of glass exactly like the ones in my childhood room.
Of course, Killion would grow roses that look like they're made of ink and venom. It suits him.
