Chapter 8: The Court of Black Feathers
The duchal court of House Vellgard was not built for war, it was built for envy.
Vaulted ceilings arched like the ribs of a giant serpent, polished to a mirror sheen. Glass inlaid floors reflected sunlight filtered through alchemical prisms. Guards lined the walls in perfect posture, their halberds ceremonial, their eyes dull from hours of stillness.
Corvin walked the marble path to the throne dais as if it were any other alley.
The human courtiers flanking the chamber murmured behind silk fans and jeweled collars. He could hear them all clearly through surface thoughts:
"That’s him, Raven." "He doesn’t even bow." "How does a man like that keep his hands so clean?"
Duchess Yvanna Vellgard lounged upon her glass throne, draped in wine colored velvet and layered jewelry. Her gaze was sharp, her posture imperial.
"Corvin Blackmoor," she said, drawing out his name as though tasting it. "Your reputation moves faster than your shadow."
Corvin remained still. His face unreadable, arms loose at his sides.
"I expected someone... hungrier."
He smiled faintly, almost politely.
"You confuse noise with appetite, Duchess."