The marble hallways of the Ardent Mansion no longer felt like a home; they felt like the stone intestines of a slaughterhouse.
As the guards hurried Victoria down the grand eastern staircase, she looked over the gilded banister and froze. Below, three of her standard estate security men were throwing their entire body weight against the heavy oak double doors of the main foyer. Their boots skidded uselessly on the polished floor. Through the reinforced wood, a rhythmic, mechanical thudding vibrated—the sound of an industrial ram hitting the hinges.
In the shadows of the adjacent dining room, the normal house staff—the maids, the cooks, the elderly butler who had served her family for a decade—were crammed under tables and behind mahogany cabinets. They were huddled together like livestock, their muffled sobs cut through by the sharp, metallic clicks of weapons being readied outside.
