Henrik's manor was one of the most dominating buildings within the merchant district of Ironhold, a symbol of the wealth that had been accumulated through the profitable trade of herbs through the years.
The walls were made of white marble imported from the Western Regions, and in the afternoon sun, they shone brightly, while its gardens were carefully maintained by a small army of servants.
But today, unlike all other days, something was different, the usual beauty of the manor seemed almost mocking, a mask of respectability which had been broken beyond repair by a mere drunken miscalculation.
In the main study on the second floor, in a room adorned with expensive wooden shelves and filled with books of account recording profitable dealings for decades past, Lord Bjornson sat at his massive desk with his face looking like a stone.
His hands were clasped before him so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, and a muscle twitched in his jaw with barely suppressed fury.
