Gregoris Frasner's home office was designed to intimidate quietly.
Dark-paneled walls absorbed light rather than reflected it. The coffered ceiling sat high enough to make most men feel smaller the moment they walked in, and the hand-carved, ancient, and aggressively unnecessary desk was positioned so that anyone standing in front of it had to look up. Gregoris had never pretended otherwise. Wealth, like power, worked best when it did not apologize for itself.
He sat behind the desk now, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled back to his forearms, gold cufflinks glinting in the light with every movement. Several documents lay open in front of him on trade concessions, military provisioning routes, and council correspondence that required a duke's signature and patience. He was midway through annotating a clause when the door opened.
Peter, his butler, entered without knocking.
"Your Grace," Peter said, voice even, posture immaculate. "There has been… a situation."
