Though it was the middle of the day, Mr. Mortis's office continued to say slightly dim. A faint smell of old parchment and candle wax hung in the air, along with the scent of dust that never seemed to settle. Behind his large, aged desk sat Mr. Mortis, his hollow gaze resting on Ezekiel, who stood before him, his expression tightly controlled.
"It was a little stab. Nothing an Elite vampiress couldn't handle," Mr. Mortis said, his tone as dry as the ancient walls around him.
Ezekiel's polite smile strained at the edges, a flicker of frustration passing beneath the calm exterior. His voice, though measured, carried an edge of insistence, "But Mr. Mortis, a Groundling raising a hand against an Elite—it sends the wrong message, don't you think? It undermines the hierarchy that maintains order at Sexton."
