Maniel Daen Silvester stood unnervingly at a raised spot in the High Ball, where no other man stood. With his arms crossed backward, his gaze was fixed downward, watching the crowd of ignorant nobles waver around, drinking, laughing and dancing amidst the soft bellow of sweet party music.
An aging man, Maniel was. But it appeared as though sometimes the old man forgot that fact, with the way he almost always dressed lavishly, like a youth who'd recently learned how to squander money on frivolities.
Currently, he was dressed in a fine green leather coat that flowed all the way to the marble floor. The collar of his coat was made from the fur of a wild animal that roamed in the forests of Southern Jalozi.
His teeth were clenched, jaw quivering as he stared downward.
Maniel felt cold. He felt so, so cold. Even his coat couldn't provide sufficient warmth, for the source of this cold wasn't a physical one. It stemmed directly from his heart, chilling his soul.
It was fear.
