“Where is It?” Casimer Talbot thundered.
The forty-year-old man’s copper irises narrowed in anger, making his angular face look even sharper. His thinning hair was short, forest green curls.
He stood in his luxurious office. A desk made of light wood and a matching chair were ornately decorated with delicate scrollwork. Both rested beneath a round window overlooking a small garden. One entire wall of the white-washed room had been left unadorned so he could project the TV onto it anytime he wanted. The others were covered with maps, pictures of his dead parents, and family crests.
With a grunt, Casimer ground his heel into the lush carpet and threw his purple cloak onto the back of the chair with a swish. The color usually soothed him. It reminded him that he was of royal blood, entitle
