Territory of Darlayne, Province of Vyrathia
The rain had not stopped in three days. It slid in silver beads down the tall arched windows of Castle Darlayne, washing the world in hues of gray and fatigue.
The air smelled of wet stone, old paper, and something more subtle—like a fire dying somewhere deep in the hearth of something ancient. Outside, the sea winds howled through the cliffs like spirits unsettled, but inside the study, the storm was of a different breed.
Lord Aerion Virell stood behind a curved desk carved from bonewood, a wine glass dangling between two fingers. He wore his silk robes open at the chest, lounging as if the world couldn't touch him.
His black hair was neatly combed back, though strands clung to his temples in the dampness, and his violet eyes had the dispassion of a man bored by the affairs of others.
"You're telling me," he said, swirling the wine with deliberate languor, "that I should... what? Sell them? Because of a bedtime story?"
