The smell of smoke still permeated the air, even there, within the reinforced walls of the central mansion. The light coming through the tall windows was gray, filtered by clouds of ash hovering over the city. The tapestries hung motionless, as if time itself were holding its breath.
Strax sat in the Grand Duke's armchair.
It was not a throne. It was just a reinforced chair, made of dark wood and purple velvet, but at that moment, it seemed to weigh tons. His presence filled the room like a storm about to break. His elbows rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers intertwined in front of his mouth. His eyes were half-closed, golden, fixed on the man in front of him.
The soldier was motionless, pale as wax. His armor, dented and stained with soot, clinked with the tremors he was trying to control. Even so, he spoke.
