Ansla's uncle's meaty hand immediately trembled when he heard the words. They were so simple, and seemingly said so very casually, and yet the weight of them was so very sinister.
It was the sort of accusation that might not have been levied at all in most situations—the sort of thing the host might look the other way for…
Until someone pointed it out.
In an instant, the blood had already drained from his face, and in an instant later, he lost his head.
Sylas felt very clearly where the power came from—a surging might from one of the shortest curved tables, but one that took center stage nonetheless.
There were only five people at the table. Draped in cloaks, only their irises, glowing in the darkness, were visible. Well, other than the longer, pale hand that stretched from the sleeves of one.
