Soran moved through the mansion like a storm front—silent, purposeful, unstoppable. The servants who saw him coming in the corridors dropped their eyes and stepped aside without a word. No one dared speak to him. Not when his eyes were that particular shade of yellow-gold, not when his jaw was set like it might crack stone.
He went straight to the kitchens.
Mrs. Veyra was there—overseeing the midday preparations, her silver hair pinned tight, apron starched to perfection. She looked up the moment Soran pushed through the swinging doors. The room went still. Knives paused mid-chop. Pots stopped clanging.
“Master Soran,” she said—voice steady, but her hands clasped in front of her betrayed the slightest tremble.
Soran didn’t sit. Didn’t lean. He stood in the center of the room—arms cross
