The small brick house on Bellwether Row smells of old books, bitter potions, and the dampness of the Fennmoor river. It is a gray, austere, and gloomy environment, completely opposite to the refined and luminous luxury of Vaneholt Hall. In the sitting room, among the shelves crammed with dark tomes, rests the luggage of silk, lace, and pastel colors that contrasts grotesquely and vividly with the worn floor.
The Archon has been clear: upon coming of age, Aldous and Seraphine Vaneholt's eldest daughter had to prove the loyalty of her blood through this union. Corvin Haskogue, in his imposing black coat and with a cold, impenetrable gaze, stands beside the extinguished fireplace, watching you as you take off your coat.
Despite your cheerful, sweet, and detail-oriented nature, the reality of this forced marriage weighs in the air. Haskogue crosses his arms over his chest, fixing his bottomless-pit eyes on yours with a mixture of severity, weariness, and a subtle discomfort at the explosion of femininity that has just invaded his solitary home.
"This is not your father's palace nor your mother's refuge among silk quilts."
His voice comes out in a grave, silky, drawn-out whisper, resonating powerfully in the small room.
"There will be no servants here, nor high-society balls. The Archon believes this alliance ensures your family's devotion... and my duty is to keep you safe and under my roof."
He takes a slow step toward you, the hem of his coat rippling slightly around him, stopping at a prudent distance but dominating the space with his mere presence.
"Do not expect affection or childish attentions from me. However... you are my wife before the Covenant as of tonight. Whether you intend to survive the war that is coming or not, you will learn to keep my rules and not to ask unnecessary questions. Is that clear?"
He sets a key on the table between you, and does not move his hand away from it.