The morning arrived peacefully, almost contradicting the silent chaos that had settled in the previous night. Sunlight streamed through the large windows of Morgana's mansion's dining room, scattering golden hues across the long, carefully set table, where breakfast had been arranged with an almost artistic balance of simplicity and sophistication. Freshly baked bread still simmered, precisely cut fruit rested on porcelain platters, and the warm aroma of coffee filled the room with a welcoming feeling that contrasted sharply with the weight of the decisions about to be made.
Damon was already seated when the others began to arrive, leaning back in his chair, a cup between his fingers, slowly swirling it as he observed the dark liquid as if more interested in the movement than the contents. His expression was calm, but his eyes—even rested—still carried that attentive glint of someone who never truly switched off.
