NOVEL NEXT Book 3 Prologue
Several people sat around a long table made of ornate, carved wood within a whitestone dining room. The remains of what had undoubtedly been a sumptuous feast were scattered across it. Plates filled with bones, picked clean of even the gristle, lay next to butter crocks and spice shakers, all nearly emptied of their contents.
The men about the table were engaged in merry conversation, however, as napkins were removed from laps and set on the table, golden chandeliers and candelabras bathing the room in an ethereal glow, conversation shifted to business, and faces grew more subdued.
A man stood at the head of the table, his back to the chair he'd been sitting in throughout the dinner, gazing out the nearby window at the setting sun. He was half-draped in the long evening shadows, but his visible half suggested a height well above the average man.
He had a medium build, and he didn't share the large bellies and well-fed chins that were found around the rest of the table.
He stood with calloused hands clasped behind his back, apparently ignoring the muted conversation behind him.
"My Lord, if I may…" a man halfway down the table said loudly, standing slowly so as to avoid knocking any of the finery about.
"Everything is proceeding apace. We have issued the new property ownership declarations with resistance from neither the landed nobles nor the ownership class of commoners. There are a few—uh, 'groups' resisting the changes, but their influence is minor. Their voices will be silenced without affecting any of the city's larger affairs.
"In addition, the South Quarter has been cleared. The warehouses and businesses in that district have been stripped, the valuables redistributed appropriately. We are on-track for…what you have previously outlined," the man finished hesitantly, gulping loudly and sitting back down, with sweat visible on his forehead.
The table was quiet enough that the whistling breeze sounded like a gale, everyone waiting for the man at the head to respond. The tension was palpable, having risen abruptly from the sudden absence of voices to cover it.
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When no response was forthcoming, a woman near the head of the table spoke.
"My Lord, I do not doubt your vision, but this timeframe seems…ambitious. Is there a need to rush? I would estimate that several years would be an ambitious goal, but three? It seems—please forgive me for saying, as I lack all the information—a rather rushed and arbitrary date.
"Is there a reason we must rush to accomplish this goal? Is it even possible to turn public opinion so quickly? I will admit that we have had great success thus far, but I cannot help wondering if it will continue…" she trailed off.
The man at the head turned ever so slightly, just enough for a pair of dark, malicious purple eyes that seemed to glow in the shadows of falling night to peer over his shoulder at the woman.
"Dearest Margreth, is this hesitation I hear? Do you lack the will to see my goals to fruition?" he asked, his voice a deep bass that felt like it vibrated the air, despite his volume being within normal speaking range.
"N-no, my Lord! Of course not! I merely wonder at the timeframe—" she stammered.
"There is no issue with the timeframe, my dear. You simply do not have the experience with human emotion that I do. You will be shocked at how quickly the heart can come to hate, for hatred is the quickest, easiest emotion man possesses," the man explained confidently, turning back around into the shadows.
"If that is all, please make arrangements elsewhere. Night is falling, and I desire the peace to think," he said, waving a hand with long, sharp nails in dismissal.
The people around the table quickly scooted their chairs back, hurrying out of the room—as though relieved to be leaving.
The man at the head didn't move a muscle as the room was cleared, seeming to barely be aware that anyone was there to begin with. With the practiced grace of a Lord, he walked toward the balcony at the side of the room, parallel to the table.
He nearly seemed to float, his mannerisms so precise and fluid, and as he walked, a smile crept across his face—just barely visible as the shadows shifted and blurred around him.
"Yes, hate is something of a specialty of mine," he said quietly, his small smile suddenly turning monstrous, his lips sucking back against the bone of his jaw as though the moisture had been drained from them, before quickly fading back to a practiced neutrality.
Outside, the last vestiges of a blood-red sunset faded as night fell in full.