"Don't you know," Lord Glimor said, each word measured, precise, sharpened like a blade, "How to respect a woman?"
The corridor seemed to shrink around the question.
Killian opened his mouth, then closed it and opened it again.
"Father, I wasn't—"
"Silence!"
The word cracked through the hallway like a whip, sharp.
The servants lining the far end of the corridor flinched instinctively, shoulders drawing in, eyes dropping to the polished floor as if the marble itself had suddenly become more interesting than survival.
Killian froze.
The half-formed excuse died in his throat.
Cyrus Glimor didn't raise his voice again. He didn't need to. The silence that followed was heavier than shouting. It pressed down on Killian's chest until even breathing felt like defiance.
Cyrus turned his gaze away from his son and toward Agnes.
"Go," he said.
His voice was calmer now. Lower. Meant to carry authority without violence.
"You can rest for the day."
