Max tried his best to compose himself until the car rolled through the gates of Claymore Manor.
Composure was something that had been practiced. A mask he'd learned to wear long before the rebellion, before ether trials, imperial bloodlines, and the kind of family history that left unseen bruises. By the time the gravel crunched under the tires and the estate's wards tasted his signature and let him pass, he had already rebuilt himself into the version of Maximilian Thornwell that George Claymore preferred.
The loyal nephew.
The young man who listened.
He let his shoulders soften into something almost deferential. He allowed his expression to settle into polite calm. He rehearsed, silently, the cadence of 'yes, uncle,' and 'of course,' and 'I understand.'
He even let his hands stay loose.
That one was harder, because Max didn't come here because he wanted to.
He came here because George still held shackles.
Two of them.
The first shackle had always been his mother.
