The candlelight burned low in the estate's west wing, casting long shadows over the stone floor. Vincent stood tall before the cowering guard, the man's wounded hand still bandaged from Shadow's cruel bite earlier that day. The pain, though dulled by treatment, had not ceased; now, in Vincent's presence, it flared anew, fed by fear.
"I do not like to waste my time with pleasantries," Vincent began, his voice like silk drawn across the blade of a dagger. "So spill the truth, unless to prefer to part with your tongue."
The guard's breath faltered. Beads of sweat glistened along his brow. His knees buckled under the weight of Vincent's glare.
"W-where I was posted?" he repeated, voice trembling.
Vincent's gaze hardened. "Speak properly, man. Where were you posted?"
"I—I was rounding on the front parameters, my lord," the guard stammered knowing he cannot lie as Orson was right there and he was in-charge of posting everyone.
