The dining hall of the Vernhardt manor was a cavernous space, illuminated by the flickering, sickly yellow light of a massive iron chandelier. In the past, this room had been a theater of war, a place where voices were raised, plates were shoved aside in anger, and the air was thick with the Duke's thunderous resentment.
Tonight, however, the silence was worse.
Duke Vernhardt sat at the head of the table, but he was not slumped in his chair with a scowl. He sat perfectly upright, his hands resting flat and open on the white linen cloth. A faint, serene smile played on his lips, an expression so alien to his gaunt, hawk-like features that it made him look like a poorly made wax figure of himself.
Liera sat to his left, her fingers trembling so violently she had to hide them in the folds of her skirt. She looked across the table at her brothers, searching for some semblance of normalcy, but found only the same frozen mask of confusion and dread.
