Lloyd Ferrum stood before the immense mahogany desk, a picture of calm composure that felt utterly at odds with the storm brewing within him. Beside him, a silent monolith in dark livery, stood Ken Park, his presence a quiet counterpoint to the drama unfolding. Lloyd had slept, surprisingly, not peacefully, but with the focused intensity of a soldier preparing for battle. The sofa, his unwanted kingdom, had offered little physical comfort, but the clarity of his plan, bolstered by the mountain of damning information Ken had compiled before dawn, provided a cold, sharp certainty that felt better than any rest.
Across the expanse of polished wood and expensive rug, the opposition was assembled. Viscount Rubel Ferrum, Lloyd's uncle, stood radiating an aura of solemn gravity that barely concealed the smug triumph glittering deep in his calculating eyes. Beside him, practically mirroring his father's smugness but adding a layer of arrogant disdain, stood Rayan Ferrum, Rubel's heir. Rayan's gaze flickered over Lloyd with open contempt, a sneer playing at the edges of his lips.
Clustered near them, looking wretched and terrified, were the five witnesses from the previous day. They huddled together like sheep sensing wolves, their eyes darting nervously between the imposing figure of the Arch Duke, the smooth menace of Viscount Rubel, and the unnerving calm of Lloyd Ferrum. They twisted worn caps in their hands, shuffled their feet incessantly, and avoided eye contact at all costs.
Adding a grotesque element of theatre to the proceedings were two figures slumped in chairs placed strategically for maximum visibility. Swathed head-to-toe in thick, stained bandages, leaving only small, dark openings for eyes that darted about wildly and mouths that emitted periodic, muffled groans of pain, they were tangible props in Rubel's carefully staged accusation. Two of the three 'loyal employees'. Their suffering, whether entirely genuine or significantly exaggerated, was meant to underscore Lloyd's alleged brutality.
But it was the final figure, standing apart near the shadowed bookshelves, that drew Lloyd's attention most acutely. Rosa. His wife. Dressed in a gown of striking emerald green, she was a figure of cool, almost unsettling stillness amidst the rising tide of emotion. Her face, framed by dark hair, was an exquisite mask of indifference, her posture erect, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond the immediate drama. Why was she here? A summons from Roy? Morbid curiosity? Or something else entirely, something inscrutable unfolding behind those obsidian eyes? Her presence was a silent question mark in the room, an unpredictable element that Rubel, Lloyd noted with grim amusement, seemed to interpret as advantageous. The Viscount shot a subtle, almost proprietary glance her way, a flicker of possessive pride suggesting he believed her presence somehow validated his position or signaled Lloyd's isolation. Fool, Lloyd thought. You understand nothing about her.
Arch Duke Roy Ferrum surveyed the assembly from behind his desk, his face an impassive granite cliff face. His eyes, sharp and penetrating, missed nothing – the witnesses' fear, Rubel's confidence, Rayan's sneer, the victims' groans, Rosa's stillness, Lloyd's calm. He gestured curtly towards his brother, a silent command. "Viscount. The deadline has arrived. Present your case."
Rubel Ferrum stepped forward, his movements smooth, practiced, projecting sorrowful duty. "Your Grace," he began, his voice resonating with carefully modulated sincerity, pitched just loud enough to fill the study. "It is with the heaviest of hearts that I stand before you again on this grim matter. Justice, however, demands no less."
He turned slightly, encompassing the witnesses and victims with a sweep of his hand. "Yesterday, we heard the clear, corroborating testimony of five impartial citizens who witnessed Young Lord Lloyd's unprovoked assault." He paused, letting the accusation hang. "Today, Your Grace, the picture becomes even clearer, even more distressing."
"Milo," Rubel addressed the first witness, the thin man with shifty eyes. "Step forward. Tell His Grace precisely what you saw near Weaver's Alley two days prior. Speak plainly."
Milo shuffled forward, swallowing nervously, his gaze fixed somewhere on Roy's imposing desk rather than his face. "Y-yes, Excellency, Your Grace! I… I was just goin' about me business… when I saw the young lord… Lord Ferrum, that is." He licked his lips, sweat beading on his brow despite the room's coolness. "He come stormin' down the alley like… like a thundercloud! Didn't say barely a word!"
"Barely a word?" Rubel prompted gently, subtly reinforcing the narrative.
"N-no! Just… anger! Pure anger on 'is face! And then… then he just lashed out! Hit poor Davin there," Milo gestured vaguely towards the bandaged figures, "right in the face! Sent 'im sprawling!"
"And the reason for this attack?" Rubel inquired, his tone implying the answer was obvious.