The Festival of Concord transformed Porto Veloce into a shimmering spectacle of excess. White stone buildings gleamed beneath strings of amber lanterns. Golden Script coins stamped with Valerio's profile cascaded from decorative fountains, servants scooping them up to distribute to eager guests. The harbor water reflected constellations of light that turned the natural bay into a dream-like mirror, creating an illusion of infinite wealth and splendor.
Pierre stood at the edge of the central plaza, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored jacket. The clothing felt like a costume – too fine, too restrictive, as if designed to contain not just his body but his true nature. Hardy's darkness writhed beneath his skin, agitated by the crowds and the facade he maintained. Each smile he forced made the whispers in his mind grow louder, more insistent.
Take them all. Drain them dry. Show them what real power looks like. They're nothing but vessels waiting to be emptied.
