The room was warm in a way that had nothing to do with fire. The sheer pressure warmed the room.
Crimson drapes fell from the ceiling in heavy folds, drowning the stone beneath layers of deep red and muted gold. The colors were rich, deliberate, meant to feel expensive rather than noble.
Light from hanging lanterns filtered through dyed silk, casting everything in a faint scarlet hue, as if the air itself had been diluted with blood and coin.
Looking at his hands, it made the blood even more crimson than it already was.
At the far end of the chamber stood a long table carved from dark lacquered wood. Behind it, mounted proudly on polished stone, was their symbol. The one he despised so much, one he wanted to burn to the ground.
A red coin.
Pierced clean through by a quill.
Not crossed by a sword. Not crowned by laurel. Not wrapped in flames.
Pierced.
