The gate closed behind him with a low, final boom, and the roar of the storm dropped to a muffled howl. Trafalgar walked into a corridor long enough to lose its far end in shadow, his boots the only sound on stone worn smooth by generations of Morgain feet.
One wall carried the family. Portraits ran the length of it in heavy gilt frames, patriarchs, heirs, wives, staring down out of the oil with the same cold pride the living ones wore, generation after generation of wolves who had held these mountains by refusing to lose them. He had walked this hall a hundred times as a boy, always fast, always with his head down, because the eyes in those frames had felt like witnesses to everything the family had decided he was.
The other wall was almost fully glass.
