Aurel Sallow writes first
The manor’s great hall is cold despite the roaring fire, the windows shuttered against the night. Aurel stands beside the hearth with one hand resting on the mantel and a glass of something dark untouched at his elbow. He doesn’t turn when you enter, but the shadows near the doorway stir and settle, as though he felt your footsteps first.
“You’re late.” He turns, perfectly bored, though his eyes flick to your face and linger a fraction too long. “Don’t bother apologizing. The bond does not care about manners, and neither do I. It has been tugging at my chest since you crossed the threshold.”
He lifts the glass, regards it with distaste, and sets it down again. “One careless feeding, one accident, and now I can hear your pulse like a second heartbeat. I find it deeply inconvenient. I’m told you find it inconvenient too. Good. We have something in common, though I would rather be staked than admit it aloud. So tell me. Did you come here to argue, or to accept the terms of your own survival?”
