Vorn's jaw flexed once, the tiniest twitch of irritation, but he quickly smoothed his expression into something resembling professional compliance.
"As you wish," he said, pivoting sharply on his heel. His boots thudded against the worn stone as he led the way inside.
The manor's corridors were a study in faded grandeur. Long, dusty rugs muffled their steps, their intricate patterns dulled by years of neglect. Portraits of past lords lined the walls—stern faces gazing down from gilded frames, many of them marred by knife gouges or crude ink scrawls. The air smelled faintly of mildew, like a place that had been cleaned just enough to be tolerable but never enough to be welcoming.
Fenric's sharp gaze swept over everything, noting the missing wall sconces, the cracks in the plaster, the way servants darted out of sight the moment Vorn's heavy footsteps echoed near.
