Marcus pushed the heavy oak door open without so much as a tap of his knuckles.
Inside, Sevar jerked upright behind his walnut writing desk, his quill skittering across the parchment in a sharp spatter of ink. The steward's face flushed with immediate outrage, mouth opening to unleash a scathing rebuke, until his eyes landed on the drab hemp tunic and the cold, mocking grin standing in the doorway. The anger withered instantly, dissolving into a sickly, pale complicity.
"Greetings, friend," Marcus said smoothly, easing the door shut until the iron latch clicked softly into its housing.
