The next morning broke clean and sharp over the Capital manor, the kind of pale sunlight that made even the marble halls look stripped bare.
Down in the cellar, however, the air was no lighter. Trevor had not left the interrogation wing since Alan was dragged to a cell the night before. He hadn't needed to. His suits were brought down freshly pressed, his meals set untouched at the corner of the room, and every servant dragged before him left with either a signed dismissal or the weight of his pheromones seared into their memory.
By the end of the night, the numbers spoke for themselves.
Ninety percent of the Capital staff, once the pride of the manor, had broken under questioning only to reveal what Trevor already knew: they were pawns. Alan's pawns. They had passed along schedules, repeated his instructions, and looked the other way when certain guests appeared where they shouldn't have. Most of them were guilty of cowardice, not treason.
