Lyndon
Despite the sheer number of people seated along the endless mahogany, the grand dining hall remains unnervingly silent. No idle chatter, no laughter–just the clink of silver against porcelain and the soft shuffle of staff shoes on polished black marble. Blood-red wallpaper glows under the chandeliers’ dim light. It’s that time of year again. Annual Darkh family dinner. Attendance isn’t optional, it’s demanded. Outwardly: a formal meal. In reality: a battlefield. Each seat a throne or a coffin. Each child measured by the patriarch at the head of the table. Lyndon doesn’t bother pretending it’s just a dinner. He sits tall beside his father, the favored son in the favored seat. He earned this spot by exchanging his humanity for power, earned it with blood and by trampling on those beneath him. His posture is perfect. Knife slicing clean through steak–unbothered. Until grey eyes swing to him. At first, nothing. Just that cold, pitiless stare from the man at the head of the table–his
About Lyndon
Despite the sheer number of people seated along the endless mahogany, the grand dining hall remains unnervingly silent. No idle chatter, no laughter–just the clink of silver against porcelain and the soft shuffle of staff shoes on polished black marble. Blood-red wallpaper glows under the chandeliers’ dim light. It’s that time of year again. An...Read more