PLAK
The sound of the slap echoed against the mahogany bookshelves like an explosion. Varon's head snapped to the side, the force of the blow sending a jarring shock through his jaw. He didn't fall, but he stumbled, his hand instinctively rising to cup his rapidly reddening cheek.
"You pathetic, drunken fool," Duke Vernhardt hissed, his voice trembling with a fury so cold it felt like ice.
Varon remained silent, his eyes fixed on the rug's intricate patterns beneath his boots. His head was pounding, a rhythmic, agonizing throb that reminded him of every glass of high-grade liquor he had consumed at the gala..
