I strode through the ornate gates of the Orwell estate with Bradley at my side. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the traditional courtyard, where armed guards watched our approach with barely concealed hostility.
Bradley's face was pale. Dark bruises marked his jawline. His own family had interrogated him for three days straight.
"Master Knight," he whispered as we approached the main hall. "Please understand their position. The Nash family's pressure—"
"Save your breath." My voice cut through his explanation like ice. "I didn't come here to beg."
The massive doors opened before us. Warren Fuller, Bennett Orwell's eldest son, blocked our path. His cultivation radiated outward, attempting to intimidate me through sheer presence.
"So this is the man who turned our family elder into a lapdog." Warren's sneer was practiced, condescending. "You look younger than I expected."
