The dining hall was the size of a ballroom.
That was Kain's first thought as he entered it.
His second was that the table—made of polished blackwood with silver leaf trim—could probably host a diplomatic summit. Easily thirty seats stretched along its length, every chair carved with the Storm family crest: a chalice overflowing with wild, jagged spiritual flames. But only three places were set.
One at the head.
Two flanking the center.
Serena's father sat at the head of the table like a man carved from marble—shoulders square, expression unreadable, eyes glinting beneath pale lashes. His posture was perfect. His hands rested lightly over a sheathed dagger at his waist, as if he always dined prepared to gut an intruder.
Kain occupied the seat to his left.
Serena sat across from him, elegantly poised, sipping soup like she hadn't just thrown him into a pit of hungry dragons and locked the door.
Kain poked at his plate.
