Clap.
The sound cut through the servant hall like a blade through silence. Aiden's palms met once, sharp and deliberate, and every head turned toward him. That was the beauty of power—it didn't need to scream, didn't need to bare its teeth like Gerald, or wrap itself in cold guilt like Sansa. All it took was presence. All it took was him.
He stood among them, dressed in the same dark uniform as the others—no embroidery of rank, no gilded trim to separate him from their sweat. A wolf dressed like a lamb. He smiled faintly, lifting his hand with easy grace, beckoning them closer.
"Come… come, my dear friends." His tone was warm, playful, almost conspiratorial. Not the lord commanding subjects, but one worker addressing another.
The shuffle of feet filled the room. The maids and butlers edged nearer, some with cautious eyes, others with unconscious eagerness. The air smelled faintly of soap and damp cloth, the residue of endless scrubbing.
