Trevor's office was dim, the heavy curtains drawn halfway against the afternoon sun, enough to keep the heat out, not enough to kill the tension.
Windstone stood by the bookshelf like a sentinel dressed in tailored restraint, hands clasped neatly behind his back. His expression was unreadable, though the faint crease between his brows had not left since Trevor stepped into the room.
The call had already connected.
On the polished screen embedded in the center of Trevor's desk, King Dax of Saha reclined into view, framed by ivory stone columns and violet drapery that looked almost theatrical against his pale hair and violet eyes. Like a shadow of Trevor, taller, looser in posture, but cut from the same cold silk.
"Still alive?" Dax drawled, sipping something dark from a crystal glass. "I expected you'd be half-devoured by matriarchal ambition by now."
