Augustus sat behind his desk, a titan dimmed by worry. His large hands pressed against his forehead, the knuckles white from the strain. Papers were scattered across the oak surface—reports, sealed letters, one of them half-open, its crimson wax broken.
The faint scent of old ink and steel filled the air, mingling with the earthy musk of the viscount's worn armor hanging beside the hearth.
Aiden closed the door behind him softly. He didn't need his system to read the turmoil brewing before him; the man's despair clung to the room like smoke.
"Lord Augustus," he began quietly.
The viscount looked up. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion. He smiled, a brittle curve of lips that held neither warmth nor conviction.
"Aiden," he murmured, voice hoarse. "Thank you for coming..."
There was a pause—one of those silences that lingered like a held breath, heavy and brittle. The fire cracked, spitting a flake of ember.
