Inside the grand chamber of Marquise Colombore's mansion, laughter and clinking crystal filled the air.
Four youths reclined in cushioned chairs around a low table, a bottle of imported wine breathing between them.
The firelight danced across their flushed faces, their mood light, as though the war outside their doors were nothing more than a rumor.
"It worked," one of them chuckled, raising his glass high. "By the gods, it actually worked. I didn't think my father would bend."
The speaker was Benoit Colombore, son of the Marquise himself. His voice carried both pride and a sense of relief.
Unlike the others, there was no malice behind his smile. To him, this was victory—not against Raven, but against war itself.
"You played it beautifully, Benoit," said another, a sharp-eyed youth with slicked hair. "The way you trembled when you said, 'Father, I don't want to see more blood'—hah! That melted him like butter on bread."
