Elowen’s POV
The grand dining room of the Blackthorn mansion, a space usually echoing with the confident pronouncements of alpha lineage and the clinking of expensive silverware, was bathed in the warm, almost syrupy golden glow emanating from the ornate crystal chandeliers suspended high above. The light cast long, dancing shadows on the dark, polished marble floor, making the already imposing room feel both opulent and slightly theatrical.
The massive mahogany table was laden with an extravagant spread, a testament to the Blackthorn family’s formidable status and their almost ritualistic adherence to providing the best. There were platters piled high with glistening roast meats, bowls overflowing with vibrant steamed vegetables, fragrant mounds of spiced rice, and, my secret indulgence, a basket overflowing with that subtly sweet, honey-glazed bread that I could never quite resist.
But despite the tempting array before me, food was the furthest thing from my mind. The air in the
