The cellars of the Fitzgeralt manor had not seen daylight in a week.
Trevor sat in the chair he had claimed as his throne, cuffs immaculate despite the blood that had dried on every stone around him. Windstone stood at his right, clipboard balanced in steady hands, his pale green eyes sharp enough to cut through exhaustion.
Alan had broken three days ago. The rest followed quickly after. The names had poured out like rot finally lanced from a wound; priests, business partners, archivists, and even the lowliest servants were tied in whispers to Benedict's chain.
Trevor had burned half of them and released the others. The ten percent that remained were a collection of husks, useful, if only as reminders that cowardice was still currency to be spent.
He was signing the last dismissal when the secure line on his desk hummed. The single tone was distinctive, meant only for one channel. Dax.
Trevor's lips curved, humorless. He opened it with a flick.
