Two days later. The Cross Ministry and The Nest.
The fog came early that morning — thick, white, and still. It rolled over the city like breath, swallowing the sharp lines of rooftops and the shine of carriage lamps. It was the kind of morning that muted sound, softened edges, and hid the approaching storm.
Inside the Ministry of Justice, however, there was no softness.
Only precision. Only control.
Christopher Cross sat at the head of a long mahogany table, his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, his hair slightly disheveled — the only betrayal of how little he'd slept. Stacks of correspondence and legal reports surrounded him like ramparts.
"Send word to the Ministry of Finance," he said coolly, scanning the latest report. "I want the audit expanded to include all holdings tied to the Grand Duke of Suffox — including estates acquired after the revolution."
The clerk hesitated. "Sir, that could be interpreted as—"
