He began to move.
The corridor stretched before him, lined with dark‑stained paneling and heavy drapes embroidered in a pattern he hadn't seen in years. His boots sounded soft against the polished floor, each step placed carefully, like waiting for the floor to disappear again. He passed a window and caught a glimpse of the night beyond, starless, smothered in shadow, the world outside muted like paint left too long in the sun.
Every detail pulled at old memories, memories of a time when this manor had been both sanctuary and cage. His maternal grandfather, Peter, had ruled these halls with a quiet authority, keeping what remained of the von Jaunez children 'safe' while the others, his parents, his brothers and uncles, bled themselves out in wars Olivier himself had sparked.
