The corridor had been cleared.
No bodies. No ash left behind. The floor had been wiped down to its original surface, polished enough that nothing of the fight remained except what the air refused to release.
The scent lingered.
Faint, but present.
Blood. Heat. Something sharper beneath it that had not fully dissipated.
Time had passed.
Enough for structure to return.
Not enough for the weight to lift.
Lucian stood at the long table in the main room, reviewing a spread of documents arranged in precise alignment across the surface. His posture was unchanged—shoulders squared, stance balanced, movements controlled down to the smallest adjustment.
He turned a page, then another with each motion exact.
Nothing in the way he carried himself suggested anything had shifted.
Victoria entered from the side corridor, a slim folder in hand. She crossed the room without hesitation and set it down at the opposite end of the table.
