Content note: violence and references to past abuse.
Marcus Sterling never forgot a slight. Memory was the one gift nobody could take from him, and he had kept his own polished for longer than the Highlands had been called the Highlands.
He sat in the lounge of a hotel overlooking the loch, a glass of pale wine untouched at his elbow. The room was full of people who had come for the view and stayed for the man in the cream suit.
A woman at the bar had stopped talking mid-sentence. Two men by the fireplace had drawn their chairs closer without quite knowing why. Marcus hummed under his breath, a low tune with no words, and let the room lean toward him.
It was so easy. It had always been easy. Mortals wanted to be near beauty the way moths wanted the lamp, and they never once asked themselves what the lamp was for.
He thought of the court.
