The silence of the Master Suite had changed. It was no longer the heavy, velvet silence of a vault; it was the hollow, echoing quiet of a tomb. As I pushed open the double mahogany doors, the air hit me like a physical blow—bitterly cold, smelling of stale sweat, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of a dying fire.
The titanium shutters were still open, allowing the grey, pre-dawn light to spill across the floor, illuminating the wreckage of the room. Furniture had been overturned. Silk hangings were shredded. But my eyes went straight to the bed.
Kaelen Vane, the Dragon, the Warlord who had outlived empires, was a ghost of the man I had left.
