The old man blinked, as if the words made no sense. Then, slowly, he straightened up, his hands gripping the armrests of the chair.
"The Dark Hands?" he repeated, his voice low but vibrating with suspicion. "Here? In my manor?"
The servant nodded, terrified.
The butler, still on his knees, dropped a shard of glass that chimed against the floor.
"My Lord, this is madness! The Dark Hands are criminals! If anyone learns you've received them…"
The old man ignored him, his narrowed eyes staring at some invisible point.
"Let him in," he ordered suddenly.
The servant's eyes widened. "My Lord, are you sure—"
"I said: let him in!" the old man roared, leaping to his feet.
The servant vanished down the hallway, and the old man turned to a wall mirror. He adjusted his jacket, smoothed his hair, and muttered to himself,
"Achalon wants to play the tyrant? Very well. Let's see what the shadows have to offer."
---
