The dining hall was not merely luxurious—it was performative in its wealth, every corner carved with polished mahogany and silken drapery, each chandelier hanging like starlight suspended by coin. The walls glowed with candlelight, and the floor had been buffed so thoroughly it reflected the blood smeared across the boys' boots like a warning to itself.
The Dragunov family sat in near silence, a long table stretching down the center of the room, adorned with silverware that hadn't been touched and plates that held meals none of them had dared to start. Twelve seats—twelve presences. The weight of the house was collective.