Early November. The Parliament Hall.
The marble corridors of Parliament gleamed beneath the afternoon sun, its light fractured by the tall stained windows. Gentle voices echoed against the high ceilings — the hushed tones of statesmen, their words steeped in politics and pretense.
The war had been over for over a year, but peace had not yet found its footing. In every chamber, there were whispers of reform, reparations, and revenge.
And among those whispers, two names carried more weight than any other.
Cross.
Daniel.
Charlton Daniel arrived first.
He moved through the hall with quiet authority — the kind of presence that commanded attention without seeking it. Conversations faltered as he passed, a dozen gazes following the tall figure in the dark coat, the Grand Duke whose family had risen again from disgrace to dominance.
He had come not as a soldier or reformist, but as a strategist — and the air around him seemed to hum with purpose.
Every step he took was deliberate.
