The lamps along the river burned low, their flames bent by the October wind.
The Ministry tower loomed above the fog, a monolith of justice — and of hypocrisy.
Inside, the man who had ruled it for over a year sat alone at his desk, his reflection flickering across the darkened glass.
Christopher Cross poured a measure of wine and stared at the crimson swirl in the cup.
It looked almost like blood.
He hadn't returned home since the trial's adjournment that afternoon.
The Cross estate, with its towering walls and centuries of prestige, might as well have been a prison now. His father — the Duke of Brenford — had sent a single letter through a courier, sharp and perfunctory:
Your arrogance has undone generations of careful power. You have humiliated this family. Whatever loyalty I owed you ends now.
Christopher had read it twice, folded it neatly, and set it aflame in the grate.
He had expected as much.
