Ronan
I have never been one to be intimidated by material things before, but standing here… in this house, it is extremely hard not to.
The place looks like it was carved out of old-world royalty and dipped in modern excess. Vaulted ceilings stretch high above me, supported by thick stone columns veined with silver. Chandeliers hang like frozen constellations, scattering fractured rainbows across obsidian floors polished to a mirror sheen.
The walls are lined with tapestries—some ancient, some new—depicting wolves in battle, wolves in ceremony, wolves crowned in gold. Even the baseboards gleam.
Everything gleams. Everything whispers wealth.
“F*ck,” Aric mutters. “Even the baseboards are gold.”
The air smells like aged leather, expensive whiskey, and power. Lots and lots of power.
