CHAPTER 165
The massive doors of the mansion glided open on silent, state-of-the-art hinges, revealing an interior that was a blend of hyper-modern architecture and ancient, brooding luxury.
The foyer was vast, a cavern of glass and stone where polished concrete floors reflected the clinical glow of minimalist LED strips recessed into the ceiling, while high above, a heavy iron chandelier, thick with centuries of accumulated wax and weighted by history, hung like a silent threat from a forgotten age.
As Clara stepped across the threshold, followed by a swaying, disoriented Marcus and a shivering, naked Alaric, the atmosphere hit them hard—a physical wall of sensation that demanded total submission.
It carried an acrid, biting scent of something burnt, like scorched sugar or singed fabric, but beneath that superficial layer was a far more primal, suffocating aroma that made the lungs ache.
