BANG!
The office door flew open, and a gust of cold wind trailed in as Aithur stormed through, his dark coat sweeping behind him like an angry shadow. His boots clicked sharply against the marble floor, and the faint tremor in the air made the servants freeze mid-step.
Without looking at anyone, he grabbed a glass from the tray on the counter, filled with amber liquid, and lifted it to his lips. The bitter sweetness of wine hit his tongue, but before he could take a second sip, a quiet, unimpressed voice came from the side of the room.
"That's your fifth glass today, my lord. At this point, you're drinking more grapes than sense. Try milk instead — it won't bite you."
Aithur's jaw flexed. His black eyes slid toward the speaker — a woman with long black hair, neatly tied at the nape of her neck, spectacles perched on her nose, and a navy-blue uniform fitted with soldier-like precision. She balanced a stack of books in her arms as if she'd been expecting the chaos.
