The wolf-head handles were cold beneath Soren's fingers as he pushed open the heavy doors to Lord Callen's private chamber.
Not the grand gallery where nobles were received, but a smaller, more intimate space where true power resided. The air inside tasted different, drier, older, as if the very atmosphere had been curated to Callen's exacting specifications.
Lord Callen Dathen Velrane sat behind a massive desk of polished obsidian, its surface reflecting the pale light from narrow windows like black water.
He didn't rise as Soren entered. Didn't speak. Didn't acknowledge his presence beyond the weight of those pale gray eyes that tracked his movement with predatory focus.
Papers lay in precise stacks before him, untouched. A crystal decanter of wine stood nearby, not a single drop poured. Everything waited in perfect stillness, as if the room itself held its breath.
