The black carriage rolled to a smooth stop in front of the grand Ravensall mansion, its silver eagle crest gleaming under the moonlight. The iron wheels clattered softly over the stone path, then fell silent.
The door creaked open, revealing Hardy Vadson—third son of Baron Vadson Von Ravensall. He stepped down with steady, deliberate grace. The cold night air hit his face, still tinged with the stench of the underground tunnels he'd just left behind. The rot of filth, dead rats, and dried blood, metallic and sour, clung to him like a second skin. He drew in a deep breath, trying to shake the stink from his clothes and his senses.
An old servant stood waiting, bowed low, hands outstretched in quiet readiness. Hardy peeled off his fine leather gloves, still warm from his grip, and dropped them into the man's hands without a word. He didn't spare him a glance. His eyes were locked on the mansion's open doors ahead.
