Michael didn't have to wait long.
Less than ten minutes had passed since he entered the waiting hall before the pressure in the room shifted.
The double doors creaked open without warning.
Michael turned slowly.
An old man stepped through, alone.
He was hunched, but not feeble. His back bowed slightly under age, yet every step he took was measured, as if the floor conformed to his rhythm.
His robe was deep blue, laced with silver threads that shimmered faintly in the light, and a head of thick, pure silver hair flowed down past his shoulders like a silken waterfall.
Michael instinctively stood a little straighter.
The man's gaze swept over the hall like a slow tide before settling on him. For a heartbeat, nothing was said. Then the Duke gave a slow nod.
"Mic Nor," he said, voice like polished stone scraping gently across marble.
Michael lowered his head in respect. "Your Grace."
The Duke didn't respond to the greeting at first.
