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Embroidered in the darkest of shadows, the throne of Hillwillow Manor was unorthodox by all accounts. Perched several feet upon an obsidian dais, the armrests were fashioned into wickedly curved talons enclosing around orbs that resembled predatory eyes. Symbolic of the fact that the Mynendil clan’s network of spies was widespread and extensive, the imagery of the throne was fairly appropriate. Most noteworthy, however, was the expansive pair of wings that sprung out from the sides of the throne, the extensions of the mighty horned owl.
And seated upon this magnificent platform was Nimavel Mynendil.
His lavender orbs flickered within the shadows as he read over the parchment, absorbing every detail and scanning for accentuated meanings. And it did not take long for the astute Lord Mynendil to discern some irregularities embedded in the letter.
Your friend…
Nimavel nearly scoffed at the pretense of friendship. It was true that he respected and admired Siaren Luviel more than anyone else in the Combine, but that reverence was hardly indicative of friendship. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship, as Siaren had once told him, one that required both parties for subsistence.
Or at least that had been true before…
Reflecting upon only a day before when Siaren had questioned his loyalty, Nimavel had been more than a tidbit perturbed by the alleged accusations. It was true that he and Calairiel were romantically involved, but that did not change the fact that Mynendil’s loyalties were still with Luviel.
Unless they continued to push them too far…
Crumpling the letter in his hand, the elfin lord sighed and tilted his head back against the headrest of the chair.
Politics.
He hated it.
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