The study was quiet enough to hear the faint scratch of quill on parchment from the adjoining room.
The tall windows were shut against the cool air, their glass panes catching the orange glow of the fireplace.
Marquess Raylan Veyl sat behind his desk. His fingers resting lightly on the stem of a half-full wine glass, eyes fixed on the swirl of red as if the liquid might give him answers.
The air in front of him shimmered.
A ripple, faint at first, grew into the sharp outline of a man.
Duke Alistair Ignaris's image solidified, faint light bleeding from the runes on the communication crystal at the desk's edge.
His face was as stern as stone. The kind of expression that gave nothing away and told you everything at once.
"Duke Ignaris," Raylan greeted, leaning back in his chair.
His voice was smooth and deliberate. The same tone he used when negotiating trade routes or fencing with rivals over council votes.
"To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Alistair's eyes didn't soften.
