The storm pressed against the windows like something alive, its voice low and relentless — the kind of rain that made even the marble of the Ministry seem to breathe.
Inside, the lamps burned low, shadows slicing the room into gold and black.
Christopher Cross stood by his desk, coat unbuttoned, sleeves rolled back, eyes cold and alert. The clock had struck past midnight, but he was still awake — as though he'd been waiting for this particular confrontation all night.
The invitation he'd sent had been bait. Precise. Unavoidable.
The latch clicked.
Charlton Daniel, Grand Duke of Suffox, stepped into the office like a storm given human form — rain still glistening on his shoulders, his gloves soaked through. He didn't bow. Didn't speak. His silence was heavier than thunder.
"Your Grace," Christopher said, voice smooth as glass. "I must say, I didn't think you'd accept my invitation at this hour."
