The interior of Dain Verse's residence felt less like a home and more like a high-end corporate sanctuary. Where Grave's estate possessed the sprawling, cluttered intimacy of a three-century-old workshop, Dain's parlor was meticulously curated.
The pale soul-wood paneling gleamed under the light of two standing cobalt lanterns. The small side tables held precisely arranged items: a stylus, a bowl, a single leather-bound book.
Taen led them to a set of double doors, knocked once, and opened them.
The sitting room beyond was comfortably sized, featuring four plush chairs arranged around a low table. The walls were decorated sparingly with framed documents that Bruce recognized as Nonagon certifications.
Dain Verse was waiting in one of the chairs. He stood as they entered.
