The doors to the private wing opened without a sound.
Lucas didn't ask how they were timed so perfectly, or if someone was watching from behind the walls. He already knew the answer. Places like this weren't built to be discreet—they were built to never be caught failing.
The hallway was long and dimly lit, but not cold. The sconces glowed low, casting their shadows in thin, sharp lines against dark stone and deep wood. Paintings lined the corridor—none of Trevor. All of them brutal in technique. Cold landscapes. Warships. One of a bird mid-hunt, talons already sunk into its prey.
Lucas said nothing as they walked.
Neither did Trevor.
When they reached the doors to the private dining room, Windstone was already there. The table inside was set for two. Not opulent, but curated—silverware polished, plates spaced precisely, glasses waiting.
Windstone bowed once. "Your preferred tea has been prepared. Dinner will be served as soon as you're seated."
