Charlton
Rain drizzled over Hollow Street, thin and cold, tracing the edges of old bricks blackened with soot. The motorcar's engine cooled with a faint metallic tick.
Charlton stood outside the modest house, his gloves wet, his breath misting faintly in the gray September morning. It was far from the world he once ruled — no chandeliers, no servants, no masks. Just silence and consequence.
The door opened almost immediately.
Leonard stood there — tall, lean, the same age as him, though the lines at the corners of his eyes spoke of longer wars. The cane he used wasn't vanity; it was memory.
"Your Grace," Leonard said flatly.
"Leonard," Charlton returned, voice measured.
"Come in."
The interior was small and quiet. The scent of coffee and rain mingled in the air. A single lamp flickered beside a pile of papers. No servants, no trace of rank — just survival.
"She's gone?" Charlton asked.
"Left early. Needed air."
"Good."
