The heavy doors creaked open, their polished wood groaning as the hinges yielded. Inside, the chamber was wide but not ostentatious — sunlight streamed through tall windows, pooling across a marble floor, catching in the golden trim of banners hanging on the walls.
At the far end sat a man on a carved chair that served more as a seat of state than a throne. He was not the gruff and intimidating noble Oliver had half-expected. Instead, the Viscount looked more like someone's beloved uncle: a tall, pristine figure with neatly combed blond hair, a clean jawline, and a relaxed smile. His posture carried dignity, but not arrogance.
Beside him sat a young girl, perhaps eighteen — the same age as Oliver. She had the same golden hair, though softer, cascading in waves down her shoulders. Her dress was pale green, delicate but finely made. She had a soft, lively beauty to her, and as the doors opened she turned toward them, curious eyes brightening.
