The moon was shining brightly over the Vernhardt manor, but inside the sprawling estate, the light was amber and dim. Varon sat alone in his private lounge, the heavy velvet curtains drawn tight. On the low table before him sat a half-empty bottle of aged highland whiskey and a single crystal glass.
The amber liquid caught the firelight, glowing like a trapped ember. Varon stared into it, his eyes hollow. Ever since the damning tea party, his world had felt as though it were made of thin glass, and Verona, the sister he had once stepped on without a second thought, had shattered it with a single, elegant strike of her heel.
The door creaked open. Varon didn't look up.
"You're not a very good person, Varon," a voice drawled from the doorway. "Drinking the good stuff all by yourself? Not even an invitation for your favorite brother?"
