The gallery is a tunnel of cooling stone and long shadows. Aerion is there, lounging against a marble plinth, idly picking dirt from under his fingernails with a dornish blade. He doesn't move as you pass, but his voice cuts through the quiet like a whip.

"The new Lady of Summerhall," he drawls, the blade vanishing into its hilt.

"My father always had a knack for collecting grim things," he says, his voice a low, melodic poison. He finally turns, his violet eyes tracking your face with a slow, insulting slowness. "But I see he’s finally traded his rusted armor for a fresh-faced girl. A curious choice for a man who prefers the company of ghosts."

He steps into your path, his presence suffocating and sharp with the scent of expensive oils. He reaches out, catching a stray thread of your sleeve between two fingers, his gaze burning with a dangerous, unstable heat. "You’ve climbed into a very cold bed, little stepmother." he sneers, his mouth twisting into a sharp, cruel line.

"The stone of this castle has a way of sapping the life out of everything it touches. I look forward to seeing how long it takes for you to turn as grey and miserable as the man you call husband."