The Grand Duke stepped out of the ballroom, a sore expression etched onto his face. His long golden hair, streaked faintly with silver, gleamed under the hallway torches as he walked.
His steps echoed through the corridor. The air was cold.
Ahead, a group of knights stood at attention. Nearby, a few figures were quietly examining the scene—marking signs, measuring remnants of magic, searching for something that no longer lingered.
Cassian walked beside his father, wearing a calm expression, but his gaze was sharp.
As they approached the cordoned section of the hall—the place where it happened—Cassian's eyes drifted toward a single figure that stood out.
A maid. Silent. Still.
He spoke calmly. "Jarvis. Report."
The maid bowed her head.
