Inside the obsidian-walled meeting chamber of the Zar'khael castle, the atmosphere was anything but cordial. A single long table dominated the room, carved from dark stone.
Lord Malakar du Zar'khael stood near one end, arms crossed, posture relaxed but unreadable. His demonic features were sharper than most—black horns curved backward from his skull, and his crimson eyes held the weight of centuries.
Across from him, Valttair du Morgain adjusted his dark cloak, expression cold as ever. Beside him, Lysandra stood silently, her gaze fixed ahead, not daring to interrupt.
Valttair broke the silence first.
"Why didn't you go after my son, Malakar? I thought our families had a good relationship."
Malakar smirked, unbothered. "Since when do you care that much about the bastard? Did he become useful recently? Something change your mind?"
Valttair's jaw clenched slightly, but he kept his tone measured. "That's none of your concern."
