Night on Floor 11 was stunning in a way that felt almost cruel, the crystalline trees of the forest below catching ambient starlight and refracting it into a million shards of cold blue and violet until the landscape looked like a frozen ocean stretching toward the horizon.
Dante stood on the balcony of the suite with a glass of expensive wine in his hand that he hadn't touched, probably wouldn't touch, because drinking alone on a cold balcony while staring at a pretty view felt too much like something a man did when he was processing his feelings. The wind up here was sharp, biting with the chill of altitude, but the Ancient Core in his chest kept him warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. It was always there now, humming with power that felt less like a tool and more like a second, predatory instinct waiting for something to hunt.
