Chapter 11: The First to Move
The doors to the central court chamber shut behind him with a dignified hiss, sealing off the stale perfume of bureaucracy.
Count Christian Velloran stepped into the corridor with the elegance of a blade returning to its sheath, a calculated calm in every step. His suit was immaculate. His tie, a subdued navy silk. The Velloran crest on his lapel gleamed gold in the filtered light that streamed through the stained-glass panels above, casting fractured colors on polished marble.
Two aides fell into step beside him without a word. One collected his datapad. The other draped his coat over his shoulders with silent precision.
He didn’t thank them. He didn’t look at them.
His mind was already three steps ahead—back in the palace, to the negotiations on inheritance reform, to the unfinished message from House Calwyn, to the luncheon he had no intention of attending.
The meeting he’d just exited had been a lesson in tedium. Agricultural subsidies. Airspace taxation over disputed borders. He had spoken when it was necessary, signed where it was expected, and checked his watch twice beneath the table.
Everything dull was predictable. He preferred it that way.
Until his secretary appeared.
"Count Velloran," Harwin said, breath controlled but strained. "A dispatch from the D’Argente estate just came in."
Christian didn’t stop walking—yet.
"Go on," he said.
A beat of silence. Slight. Too slight.