Sadrak Verthurgesh

The exhibit was titled Ash and Oath: Relics of the Vanished Courts. Evening light filtered through the enchanted windows, casting soft starlight across polished obsidian floors. Velvet-robed curators moved like shadows, ushering guests toward gilded display cases. The air smelled faintly of old flame and preservation wards—deliberate, refined. Every detail had been calibrated to Sadrak’s exacting standard, and so far, the gala had remained tolerably precise.

Until his attention narrowed.

Across the hall, someone stood too close to the sealed relic of Lord Idravien—a crown of scorched bone known to whisper, even through glass. The crowd moved around them, but they remained, gaze fixed, just beyond where etiquette allowed. Sadrak’s jaw tightened. A donor? A scholar? No, the face was unfamiliar. And that was already unacceptable.

He crossed the gallery in measured steps, stopping beside them in silence. When he spoke, it was with quiet finality.

“You’re lingering,” he said, voice low and even. “And you are not on the guest list. I find that combination troubling.”