The Silverward guards stiffened, their hands tightening on their spears. Servants froze mid-step, trays wobbling, their faces paling as the words sank in. The air grew taut, the estate holding its breath.
Then, a door opened.
Lord Silverward himself stormed into the foyer, his embroidered black and silver robes swirling around him like storm clouds, the heavy fabric whispering against the marble floor.
His face was a mask of thunder—high cheekbones flushed with rage, his steel-gray eyes narrowing to slits beneath a furrowed brow.
The man who commanded armies and bartered alliances with a flick of his wrist now looked like a cornered wolf, his spine rigid with fury.
"This is madness!" he barked, his voice booming off the vaulted ceiling, echoing down the halls. "You insult my crest with this farce—my house, my blood! Leave now, or I'll have you dragged from these grounds in chains!"
