Selene's manor was draped in shadow, the silk curtains drawn though daylight still lingered outside. In her drawing room, lit only by the faint glow of crystal sconces, she lounged with feline elegance on a long chair, her silken gown cascading like liquid night. Across from her sat Lady Marcelline, an old friend and confidante, her pale hands wrapped around a glass of blood. The two had spent the evening in hushed whispers, circling matters that always led back to the Council and, inevitably, to Kael.
"The Council grows restless," Marcelline said, her voice low, cultured, yet edged with disdain. "This business with the escaped prisoner, the witch hunters are useless at this point. They want Kael to take firmer action. The king's patience wears thin."
Selene arched a brow, swirling her own glass. "Kael has always been the king's weapon. He strikes when he must. But these whispers—these matters—they circle him like carrion birds."
