The Voss family's private viewing room felt less like a sanctuary and more like a tomb. Sunlight streamed through the panoramic window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the heavy silence, but failing to warm the glacial atmosphere.
Marcus Voss stood silhouetted against the empty arena sands, a monolith of contained fury radiating waves of cold intensity. His broad shoulders were rigid, hands clasped behind his back like manacles.
Lady Elara sat perched on the edge of a plush velvet chair, her knuckles white where she gripped the armrests, her face pale as parchment.
Darien slumped in another chair, staring blankly at the intricate carpet pattern, looking hollowed out, the shadow of the reluctant prodigy utterly extinguished.
