The car rolled to a slow stop in front of the Fitzgeralt estate, its dark frame gleaming beneath the descending twilight. The wide, sloping drive was lined with lanterns that flickered gently to life, welcoming them with soft golden light. There was silence here, on ancestral ground carved out of old stones and bloodlines. Not the hollow kind he'd come to fear, but the uncommon, complete lack of demand. Of watching eyes. Of judgment awaiting in the corners.
Lucas stepped out first, inhaling the familiar air. Cooler, more refreshing. There were no cameras or hints of politics in the air. He looked at the mansion's wide façade, pale walls stretching under ivy and soft archways, and felt the weight on his spine finally ease.
Trevor walked beside him, closed the distance, and placed his right hand on Lucas's back. Their steps found rhythm easily on the stone path leading to the front doors.
