From the darker side of the gathering, where even light seemed reluctant to settle, came the final march of presence.
The Voidhowls.
They were not like the rest—not elegant like the Kingswells, not theatrically sharp like the Shadowmires, not cold and composed like the Ravencrofts. They were primordial, the kind of bloodline that felt like it had been bred in the belly of the world's first nightmare.
And they were led by Robert himself.
He moved like a king who no longer ruled a kingdom but still walked like everything around him should kneel. His suit was deep midnight, a black so pure it reflected nothing—not light, not magic, not memory. Threaded into the cuffs and the collar were muted silver veins that pulsed faintly, like heartbeat lines drawn from ancient monsters. His coat trailed behind him like a shadow that had forgotten how to detach.
