Duke Vernhardt's private study was a place of oppressive silence.He looked like a scholar at peace, his hands resting lightly on the arms of his high-backed chair. Across from him stood Varon.
Varon was currently standing with his head slightly inclined, his expression a mask of professional neutrality, though his eyes darted toward the Duke with a flicker of unease.
"You called for me, Father?" Varon asked, his voice smooth and melodic.
Varon waited in the stillness of the study, the silence pressing down on him like a weight. Lately, whenever his father summoned him, a quiet unease crept into his chest. It had not always been this way. Once, such calls had meant lessons, duties, or the steady guidance of a powerful hand. Now they felt different, sharper, colder, like unseen pieces moving across a board he could not fully see.
He hated the feeling. It made him seem weak, suspicious of his own blood.
