The Vale Estate
The Vale Estate sat on a hill overlooking the city, its lights flickering in the dusk like a watchful eye. It was old money, old power, old secrets—the kind of wealth that didn't need to announce itself. The gates opened for Alistair without question. The driveway was long, lined with trees that had been planted before he was born.
He didn't like coming here.
Not because of the opulence. He'd seen richer. Not because of the guards—beastkin, most of them, loyal and quiet. He didn't like coming here because Margaret Vale reminded him of things he'd rather forget. Duty. Sacrifice. The weight of choices that couldn't be unmade.
The car stopped. A servant opened the door. Alistair stepped out into the cold.
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Margaret's office was on the second floor, overlooking the garden. It was warm inside, a fire crackling in the hearth, but the warmth didn't reach the corners. She sat behind her desk, a glass of wine untouched at her elbow, her eyes fixed on the flames.
