They walked in silence through the east wing, the lamps casting soft gold across the hallway's stone floors. The warmth of the day still clung to the walls; ceiling-high windows let Lucas see the city beneath the estate of Fitzgeralt, scattered with lights and shaped by distance. He hadn't had the time to take in the view when they landed and hadn't looked for the silhouette of the castle. But something told him it wouldn't compare—that even the Imperial Palace couldn't compare to this.
This wasn't a fortress dressed up as power. It was power dressed down as home.
The corridor was long and quiet, designed for discretion. No staff. No sound beyond their footsteps. Lucas's hand was still on Trevor's arm, fingers light but steady. He was used to walking alone, used to holding his own weight—politically, physically—but tonight, he didn't pull away.
He was tired. And the meal, as light as it had been, only made him sleepier.
