The days that followed were gray with rain — the kind of rain that doesn't rage but endures.
Windsor wore it like penance.
Inside the Ministry of Justice, the corridors no longer hummed with confidence but with the fragile tremor of fear. Files were moved, ledgers rechecked, names whispered as if they carried contagion.
Christopher Cross had begun his quiet purge.
The Quiet War
He did not summon men to his office with fury. He summoned them with formality.
Letters bearing the seal of the Ministry arrived like silent verdicts.
You are to appear for questioning.
Your cooperation will determine the course of proceedings.
By the third day, half the Prime Minister's circle had vanished from their posts.
By the fifth, the newspapers began to stir.
By the end of the week, Parliament smelled of smoke — not fire, but fear.
Christopher never raised his voice. He didn't need to.
