The lamps in Brenford Manor burned through the rain.
The Duke of Brenford had not slept, but neither did he look tired. There was something different in his stillness tonight — not defeat, but recognition.
He had spent decades watching men rise and fall for lack of foresight. His son, it seemed, had learned that lesson better than anyone.
On the desk before him, telegrams arrived by the hour. Some whispered outrage over the anonymous leaks; others sought clarity, favors, promises.
Each carried the same scent — panic masked as propriety.
The Duke read them all, the faintest trace of satisfaction ghosting across his mouth.
"The vultures circle too soon," he murmured. "They never learn — the Crosses always feed last."
