In the cold, quiet core of the Vaise family estate—a fortress more like a mausoleum than a home—two legends sat across from each other in a chamber designed to contain magic that could obliterate kingdoms.
Argon Von Vaise sat still on his obsidian throne-like seat, hands steepled, his eyes half-lidded like he was bored of existence itself.
The man had the presence of a glacier given form—ancient, cold, and crushing. His aura flickered like thin ice on a lake before a storm.
Across from him was the polar opposite in every definition.
Crisaius Von Vaise was half-sitting, half-sprawled over a velvet chair he had probably brought himself because the rest of the room was made of black steel and serious furniture.
His long white hair was tied in a messy knot, his robe was askew, and his beard was full of toast crumbs.
He was sipping tea from a skull-shaped mug with a tiny paper umbrella in it.
