The scent of burning tobacco drifted through the dimly lit chamber, curling lazily in the cool air.
Grand Duke Ruth sat in his usual chair, fingers drumming against the polished wood of the grand table, the rhythmic tapping filling the quiet room. His sharp gaze flickered toward Rami, who was carefully setting up the table, arranging documents and a fresh pot of tea with practiced efficiency.
Without looking up, Ruth spoke, his voice smooth yet carrying an edge of steel.
"What date is today?"
Rami straightened, his hands pausing momentarily before he responded.
"The 13th, my lord."
Ruth's fingers stopped tapping. His brows furrowed slightly, his gaze shifting toward the towering window. Outside, the landscape stretched in eerie stillness, the darkened sky betraying no secrets.
"13th..." he murmured, his frown deepening. A sense of unease stirred within him—an instinct honed by years of power and war.
His eyes narrowed.
"Have they reached the estate?"
