The next morning, the morning sun cast a muted glow through the high windows of House Preaton's reception hall, illuminating every dust particle floating in the air, as if to highlight Vyan's growing irritation.
His foot tapped restlessly against the polished floor, while Clyde leaned back beside him, arms crossed, one brow raised in silent amusement at Vyan's obvious impatience.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door swung open, and Eryndor entered with his usual air of austerity. His gaze swept over them, settling on Vyan with a faintly disapproving frown, as though Vyan's very presence was an offense to his perfectly ordered day.
"What do you want, Your Grace?" Eryndor's voice was clipped, devoid of any warmth.
Vyan barely restrained a grimace, not surprised at how Eryndor was back to his usual self after his rare display of emotions yesterday in front of a stranger.
Whatever. Either way it didn't matter to Vyan.
