"My Lord."
"My Lord."
Maids and servants bowed their heads as Asher strode down the castle's hallway, his presence parting them like waves before a ship. He gave no reply, his eyes cold and distant, locked on the tall black doors ahead.
They swung open to reveal the sacred hall—his seat of power.
The flames of wall-mounted torches flickered with restless life, casting golden tongues of light against the obsidian flags hanging between the narrow windows. The night wind whispered through the stained glass, carrying with it the scent of iron and war.
Kelvin stood beside the stone throne, the firelight painting shifting shadows across his solemn face.
"My Lord," he greeted with a respectful bow.
Asher approached with wide, measured strides, the hem of his dark coat gliding inches above the polished stone floor.
"The Archduke is dead?" he asked, voice steady but taut.
