The morning after the storm carried an uncanny calm — a stillness that felt like the city itself was holding its breath.
The streets were freshly washed, glistening like glass beneath the pale October sun. But beneath the surface, Windsor was beginning to shift.
Invisible lines of loyalty were redrawn. Quiet rumors moved faster than the fog.
It was the sort of morning that promised no violence — and yet, everything about it smelled like war.
--
Charlton
The Grand Duke of Suffox sat alone in his study at The Nest, a cigarette burning slowly between his fingers.
The townhouse was quiet, sunlight pooling against the old rug, the smoke curling lazily upward as if marking time.
On the desk before him lay a map — not of armies or borders, but of influence.
The city rendered in faint pencil: the banks Christopher's family owned shares in; the press offices he frequented; the salons where his name was whispered with admiration and fear.
