Morning came pale and colorless.
The rain had washed the city clean, but the air that followed was heavy—the kind that warned of storms that no longer belonged to the sky.
Serena stood at the window of The Nest, wrapped in Charlton's robe. Below, the street gleamed; the last lamplighters snuffed out the ghosts of night. She had not slept.
Charlton sat at his desk, sleeves rolled, reading dispatches. His stillness was deceptive: the calm of a man forcing his mind to silence while something volatile moved beneath.
"Another letter?" she asked softly.
"From Parliament," he said without looking up. "The audit of wartime accounts passed. Cross will have to answer."
Her breath hitched. "Already?"
He nodded once. "My allies have waited for this motion for years. I only had to say yes."
"You'll destroy him," she whispered.
"I'll reveal him," Charlton replied. "Destruction's a consequence, not the aim."
"You make it sound clean."
"It isn't," he said quietly. "But it's necessary."
