The morning sun struggled to break through the thick, grey clouds that blanketed the capital city of Denver. A cold, biting wind swept through the streets, carrying with it the heavy, somber mood that hung over the Thompson estate.
Outside the massive iron gates of the manor, a crowd had gathered. It was not the festive, happy crowd of the market square. It was a huddle of curious, whispering onlookers, drawn by the stark, undeniable symbol of death.
The gates, usually polished and imposing, were draped in heavy, white cloth. Long streamers of white silk hung from the iron bars, fluttering violently in the wind like the ghosts of the departed. In the Kingdom of Eudora, white was the color of mourning, but to hang it so publicly, without an official announcement, signaled a tragedy that was both sudden and shameful.
