Decisions affecting all of them had been made by the majority, and always after considerable debate. Despite their numeric rankings, their voices had been equal. Even his esteemed great-grandfather had never aspired to such heights, and yet here he was on the cusp of elevating the status of his family name.įor the last hundred years, the members of Pantheon Maioris Tredecim-literally translated from Latin as Pantheon Majority Thirteen-had been content in their respective roles, largely because they had all been in agreement about their vision of the future. He was known as Quintus, Latin for fifth, an honorific bequeathed to him by his father, although if everything went according to plan, he would soon assume the mantle of Quartus, if not higher. The velvet drapes were drawn, stranding shadows as dark as his mood in the far corners of the room. The fireplace behind him cast a flickering glare upon the Gothic armchairs, bookshelves, and red stag heads staring down at him from their mounts. He wore a tie the color of honey to call attention to his amber eyes and had the silver hair and aquiline nose of his forebears, as evidenced by the gold-framed portraits hanging in the trompe l’oeil arches. The man seated at the Macassar ebony desk was not accustomed to being made to wait.
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