[Rynthall Estate—The Same Morning]
DA—DUM. DA—DUM. DA—DUM.
The sound wasn't war drums. Not hooves. Not thunder.
It was Lucien's slippers tapping against the marble floor with the purpose and presence of a man possessed. He entered the hallway like a runway model summoned from another dimension—one hand on his belly, the other raised high as if presenting the crown jewel of a forgotten empire.
Held between his fingers: a sleek, shiny, obviously anachronistic pair of… sunglasses.
The staff froze.
Alphonso blinked.
Marcel forgot how to chew.
One of the maids let out a small gasp and crossed herself.
Lucien struck a pose. Sunlight poured in behind him through the tall stained-glass windows, casting him in holy radiance.
And then, he said, solemnly:
"Finally… it's ready."
No one spoke.
Lucien looked around. Then scoffed loudly. "C'MON! ASK ME! ASK ME WHAT THIS IS!"
