The heavy mahogany doors of the Prime Minister’s private estate slammed shut with a thunderous c***k that rattled the crystal chandeliers overhead and sent a fine tremor through the gilt frames on the walls. General Garrick stormed into his father’s opulent quarters without ceremony, his thick fur cape whipping behind him like a living thing, boots tracking mud and frost across the polished marble. His face was a contorted mask of pure fury, jaw locked, nostrils flared, amber eyes burning with the kind of panic that only comes when a carefully laid plan begins to bleed out in the snow.
He did not greet his father. He did not wait for the servants to finish pouring wine or bow their way out. He marched straight to the center of the grand room, leather soles slamming hard enough to echo off
