Lir trembled in the suffocating darkness, clutching the silver key so tightly his knuckles turned white. His palms were slick with cold sweat, and the metal nearly slipped from his grasp as his body shuddered with every muffled sound. Through a narrow sliver in the cabinet, he watched a nightmare unfold: the servant's boots moved across the lush carpet with a predatory softness, each step a rhythmic, terrifying approach that felt like the measured march of inevitable doom.
Viktor's heart hammered against his ribs like a panicked prisoner, yet he forced his features to remain a frozen mask of imperial disdain. He drew upon his most potent weapon—the haughty arrogance of his bloodline and the icy venom of his station.
"Stay your hand!" Viktor's voice cracked through the room like the lash of a whip. The suddenness of the command was so sharp that even the dying embers in the hearth seemed to flinch. "I have granted no permission for this intrusion. I have allowed no one to question my commands within my own sanctuary!"
Viktor took a deliberate step forward, his eyes boring into the head servant's with the fire of an unyielding sovereign.
"Or perhaps," he snarled, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low octave, "you have decided that the crown rests upon your head as of tonight? Do you presume that in this realm, laws have been replaced by your petty suspicions?"
The servant halted mid-stride. His bowed posture straightened almost imperceptibly, and a twisted, serpentine smile curled at the corners of his lips. It was a smile that didn't reach his eyes—a look that screamed: "I see through your facade, little Lord." His cold, calculating gaze spoke volumes, telling Viktor that his every tremor and every lie were merely threads in a web the servant had already woven.
"Far be it from me, My Lord," the servant whispered, though his tone was devoid of any true reverence. His eyes darted—just for a fleeting, agonizing second—toward the dark corner where the massive bookshelf stood, where Lir lay hidden in the shadows. "We only seek to safeguard your precious life. For sometimes, even our most trusted walls and most intimate shadows are the very things that harbor treason."
He tilted his head, sniffing the air with a theatrical, chilling slowness.
"There is a scent in this room, Your Excellency... the scent of scorched parchment, yes... but also the stink of a foreign world. Do you not smell it, My Lord?"
Lir felt a knot of pure terror tighten in his throat. He waited for that gaze to pierce the wooden slats and lock onto his own eyes. Every heartbeat felt like an eternity stretched thin across the blade of a knife.