By the time Frederik entered Gregoris's office later that evening, his father had already finished measuring at least six different versions of how far Lord Ilyan could be allowed to live with his current mistake.
Gregoris's office in the Shadow command wing did not resemble the prettier parts of the palace. It was modern, severe, and designed for function over comfort, with all dark walls threaded with low ether lines, reinforced glass, secure display surfaces, and the silence of controlled violence waiting for a reason. The desk was broad and black; the wall displays were alive with layered reports, route maps, comm logs, and a procurement trace currently suspended in pale blue over the main surface.
Gregoris stood near the central display, one hand in the pocket of his trousers, the other holding a stylus he had not used in the last thirty seconds because the conclusions had already been reached.
