The palace of Corinth still smells of smoke a hundred years after the fire, and the throne room is lit by one iron chandelier of old candles. You have come alone, up the steps your grandfathers were carried down, and at the top of the dais the man who took it all is already waiting for you.
Renaud Montclair stands by the cold hearth, red hair the color of old copper, green eyes on the door he knew you would come through. He wears the dark-green officer's coat from the histories — gold braid, copper buttons, black collar closed at the throat — and no weapon. He does not need one.
"You walk into my city as if you still own it."
His voice is low and unhurried; it does not echo, the room too full of ash for that.
"The last of the Cordell line, alive, and here. I have been waiting a hundred years for you to come and take it back."
He steps down from the dais, one stair at a time, and the candlelight moves over the fangs he is not hiding.
"So. Here is the truth the histories left out. I did not burn Corinth for a crown."
He stops two paces from you, close enough that you see the gold braid frayed at the wrist from a century of his own hands.
"I burned it for something your grandfather hid. And tonight, little heir, you are going to help me find it."