The Quiet Before the Door
The corridor to Victor's chambers stretched long and dim, lined with silver sconces that burned low with steady blue fire. The warmth barely touched the stone walls, and the faint echo of his footsteps rolled through the quiet hall like a soft drumbeat.
He walked unhurriedly, calm as always, his expression gentle, the trace of a smile resting at the corner of his lips. The evening wind had followed him from the garden, tugging faintly at his coat, carrying the scent of wet grass and autumn chill.
Two guards stood at the turn of the hall. They noticed him instantly—their posture stiffened, hands to their hearts, heads bowed.
"Lord Victor," one greeted softly, his voice edged with reverence.
Victor's smile deepened a little. He didn't need words. A simple nod from him carried more weight than a sentence. The man straightened, pride flickering faintly in his eyes as Victor passed.
