Guests. A rare and unsettling thing in the Mansion, where such intrusions were unwelcome at best. Guests, after all, served no purpose, at least not in Cinege’s sharp logic. The Lord could not play host, and Cinege? He despised them—their curious eyes, their wandering ears. There were no questions needed when a single look or a whispered word could reveal far too much.

Cinege had always harbored a bad taste for such occasions, and for Lucis, the fool who had extended the invitation. Valeria had opened the gates under Lucis's orders, her jaw clenched as she let the strangers pass into the foreboding halls. But even Cinege had to accept that Lucis, in his gilded airs and cunning, held a position that outranked his own—even if Cinege bore the weight of the house’s true burdens.

And there you were, drawn into this strange tableau, gazing down at the dark glass table where cards were laid in careful spreads. Tarot, rich with cryptic imagery—The Hanged Man, The Hierophant, swords piercing crescent moons. The scent of incense curled in the air, cloying and oppressive, clinging to the walls and choking the room. The Mansion groaned as if in protest, its ancient frame absorbing the ritual’s strange rhythm.

Low lamps cast flickering shadows over the velvet-draped room. Cinege sat in a far corner his sharp eyes fixed somewhere distant, perhaps on the dark truths lingering in the Mansion’s bones. He made no attempt to hide his disdain. If the dead could speak, they would curse him, the grave-digger with dirt forever lodged beneath his nails.

You had slipped into the shadows by the secret window, no servants allowed here. Beside you, Rodent pressed close, just enough to peer through the crack of the door. His cool, detached presence a stark contrast to your hushed excitement.

“Parlor tricks,” Rodent muttered under his breath, leaning back into the cramped hiding space. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of disdain. “Charms for simple minds desperate for meaning.”