The morning after the massacre of the assassin hideout, Darin woke up feeling… good.
Soo good that it felt suspicious.
He stretched, rolling his shoulders as he sat up in bed, blinking blearily at the ceiling. No immediate pain. No overwhelming existential dread. No voice in his head whispering ominous threats about "power" or "destiny."
He squinted. "Something's wrong."
Steve, curled up on his stomach, let out a sleepy chirp and drooled on his shirt.
Darin groaned, shoving the tiny menace off. "Ugh, Steve, that's disgusting—move…"
From across the room, Vincent hummed, lounging in a chair like a lazy king. "Morning, Lord Disaster. Did you sleep well?"
Darin squinted at him.
Vincent was suspiciously cheerful.
Too cheerful.
Darin frowned. "What did you do this time?"
Vincent grinned. "Oh, nothing at all. It's been a very peaceful night."
Lies.
Darin narrowed his eyes. "Vincent, I swear to the gods if yo—"
Before he could finish, the doors to his chambers slammed open.
