The gleaming silver reflected the sunlight streaming through the church's high windows. It shone with a soft, mystical light that tugged at the soul, like a peerless beauty striking her most seductive pose.
For a man of Count Quentin's age, silver was perhaps even more alluring than a beautiful woman.
As nobles like Count Quentin grew older, their desire for beautiful women waned while their need for silver grew daily. Silver had become the one true focus of his life—his sole source of joy.
The crisp clink of the pristine silver ingots was music to his ears, their brilliant luster so tempting that Count Quentin couldn't help but swallow. His eyes were glued to the silver, utterly unable to look away.
Count Quentin was not alone. The many Viscounts who had accompanied him wore the same expressions of desire and greed. Their eyes shone with avarice, making them look like a pack of wolves that had starved for days in the winter snow.
