An hour later.
In the mansion's living room, a certain black sword sat stabbed dead center into the low coffee table like it owned the place.
It pulsed faintly with arrogant pride, its edge glinting beneath the chandelier's warm light.
Seated in a circle—no, more like a suspicious semicircle, as if preparing for an intervention—was Raven's entire merry band of chaos.
Clara sat closest to Raven's left, a cup of tea in hand and a mildly amused smile playing on her lips.
Selena lounged at his right, legs crossed, sipping elegantly from a porcelain cup as if discussing political alliances, not a talking murder blade.
Siris had secured her place on Raven's lap today, her petite body perfectly in place, her head right below Raven's chin as she blinked wide-eyed and suspiciously quiet, waiting for the sword to say something stupid so she could stab it.