The sterile silence of the interrogation room was broken only by the rhythmic tap of Vyan's polished shoe against the cold floor. He sat there with one leg crossed over the other, a figure of poised defiance, his tight smile as controlled as his demeanor.
Across from him stood a military official, his blue stars showing his high rank. But Vyan's attention wasn't on him, not entirely. His crimson eyes flickered toward the other figure leaning against the wall—Easton, who looked as unbothered as if he were sitting in his own palace chambers.
Vyan raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into something that resembled a polite mockery. "Sir McHold," he began, voice calm but laced with sarcasm, "may I ask what he is doing here?" He casually gestured toward Easton as if pointing out an inconvenience rather than a prince.
Watson straightened up, eyes narrowing slightly. "As a prince, he has the authority to be here."
