The side passage opened into a room that didn't belong near the pits. The air was dry, carrying polish instead of mud. Pale oak panels lined the walls, and a table held neat stacks of ledgers. A hearth crackled in the corner.
Lucian's wounds were already tended. Water stung his lip, cloth scraped dirt from his skin, and linen bound his ribs. The servant worked without care for comfort. Lucian stayed quiet, unwilling to show strain under Amadeus's eyes.
Amadeus sat at the table, posture rigid though his legs stayed still. Close-cropped hair and a firm jaw gave him a strict look. Scars hadn't marked him, but the weight in his gaze spoke of years in command.
The servant stood behind, middle-aged and lean, gray running through his hair. His face showed nothing. Every motion was efficient, pared down to what was needed.
Amadeus let silence fill the room before speaking.
