Lord Rhaegal stepped out of his chamber, his boots clicking softly against the marble floors as he made his way down the long, dim corridor. Halfway through, a familiar figure appeared at the far end—Viscount Montrose, the lord of Veylor.
Rhaegal, a man who cared little for idle chatter or building shallow connections, felt the instinct to keep walking. Yet, as a guest in the viscount's home, breezing past the master of the estate without so much as a word would be discourteous.
"Viscount Montrose." He inclined his head briefly, his voice flat but respectful.
"Ah, Deputy Blackthorn!" The viscount's deep voice carried easily through the corridor. His smile, polite but faintly stiff, revealed little warmth. The streaks of grey threading through his dark hair gave him a dignified, weathered look. "It's good to see you. I was just about to send for you. Come, share a drink with me."
