The Manor That Now Bows to Him
Armor straightened. Boots snapped together. Backs stiffened.
Then all of them—every single guard stationed at the manor's entrance—bowed low in perfect unison.
"Greeting, sire."
Their voices blended into one deep note, the kind of disciplined chorus only men trained under Alina's iron expectations could produce.
Leon's steps slowed. A faint night breeze brushed past, teasing his sweat-damp black hair, making a few strands cling to his forehead. His shirt was rumpled, his scent still carrying the heat and chaos of the treasury he had just stormed through. The guards noticed—how could they not?—but none dared to comment. Their discipline held strong, silence stretched, and their eyes locked forward as if carved from stone.
Leon let his gaze drift over them—four guards tonight, two on each side of the massive manor door. For a heartbeat, his golden eyes lingered on each man, reading posture, attention, tension. Then he gave a small nod.
