TAVRIC
Jaxl and I pass through without a word between us. The doors click shut at our backs, sealing us inside a suite that feels entirely separate from the rest of the residence, as though we've stepped through some invisible membrane into a colder, older world.
The living room is vast, built for high-level diplomacy. Massive circular sofas upholstered in deep crimson and burnt orange velvet form a wide conversational ring at the center of the room. The floor is buried beneath a thick, dark rug that swallows our footsteps whole.
On the walls, huge oil paintings depict the historic victories of the dominion, hung between heavy sconces whose light catches on gold-leaf frames and throws long, flickering shadows across the ceiling.
A few paces from the seating arrangement, Jaxl and I come to a halt.
The silence in the room is heavy, deliberate, thick with unspoken malice, the kind of silence that has clearly been rehearsed.
