The wine was good—too good for the company he kept.
It sat untouched beside the stack of reports, the glass sweating onto silk-trimmed parchment, the crimson stain bleeding like old wounds across diplomatic insignias and decrypted ether maps. The chandelier overhead flickered as if reacting to his silence, its flames bending in half-formed deference.
He didn't move when the knock came. He didn't have to.
The doors opened anyway. A shadow stepped through—lean, trembling at the edges. The man bowed so low his forehead nearly kissed the marble.
"My lord," the messenger said, voice brittle as a dried leaf. "Callahan is dead. And George Claymore... lives. But barely. His mind is gone. They say he breathes, but he doesn't wake. They've begun calling him the Hollow Duke."
Silence.
Then Hadeon looked up.
He did not shout. Did not curse. That would be an insult to fury.
