Dorian stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his coat, dragging out the moment longer than he needed. His reflection looked back at him, calm but sharp, the kind of stare that could unsettle even him sometimes.
"You're going to be late for the meeting," Nathaniel muttered from the couch, arms crossed lazily as though he'd been waiting forever.
Dorian glanced at him, expression blank. "It's routine," he replied.
"Routine, yes, but not very nice to keep everyone waiting," Nathaniel said, half-teasing, half-serious.
Dorian stayed silent, debating whether the comment was even worth a reply, then shrugged, letting the matter die. He walked out without another word, descending the staircase where the butler was already waiting with his coat. Outside, the morning air was cool, the kind that pressed against skin and made everything smell faintly of dew and dust.
As he stepped out, his peripheral vision caught movement a figure cleaning one of the mansion's tall windows. He turned his head just slightly and found her, Arabella.
Her hands froze when she felt as though someone was staring at her. Slowly, she turned, and their eyes locked. For a breath, the world narrowed down to that one moment. She dipped her head in a small bow, the kind that wasn't about servitude but more about… acknowledgment. Gratitude, even.
He didn't bow back. He only turned his head forward and stepped into his carriage, shutting off whatever that moment had tried to stir.
The carriage wheels clattered against stone as he arrived at the Noble Chamber. The structure stood tall and pale, its walls an aged white that seemed more ghostly than grand. No glass panes caught the sunlight only solid, cold walls that looked like they had absorbed centuries of whispers. The long corridor inside was dimly lit, flames from wall torches flickering weakly. Without sharp eyes, one wouldn't even make out the color of the walls.
Dorian's ears picked up the faint sound of chatter nobles' voices, dukes murmuring, the scrape of boots. He sighed, already tired before the meeting had even begun.
The servants at the door pushed open the vast double doors, and the hum of voices stopped instantly. All eyes turned on him.
Dorian's gaze scanned the room but locked on one person in particular Duke Evernight.
The sight of the duke was enough for a mocking smile to fine it's way to his face which was just like the one he wore after humiliating Leopold.
"Don't you know it's rude to keep everyone waiting?" a marquis sneered from the other side of the rectangular table.
Dorian paused mid-step, as though seriously considering the words. Then he gave a careless shrug and walked to the farthest end of the table, choosing the last seat where half the others would have to shout just to be heard. The scraping of his chair against the floor echoed, deliberate.
Lord Herbert, pale-eyed and older, leaned forward. "Lord Dorian, perhaps you should sit closer."
"And why should I?" Dorian asked, his voice smooth but edged.
Herbert cleared his throat. "So that discussion can be heard by all."
Dorian tilted his head, letting a faint smirk tug his lips. "I hear well enough from here. Besides, some of you carry diseases I'd rather not catch."
The air stiffened immediately. Some nobles exchanged glances, frowns deepening. A few sneered, offended.
Herbert's face tightened, but before he could snap back, he lifted his hand instead, pressing down the tension. "We will commence the meeting now."
He turned to the others. "We are gathered to address the death of Duke William, who left behind neither son nor daughter, no heir of any kind. His province, as you all know, is rich land. The question before us is simple: who shall claim it?"
Marquee Evander, a man with light brown hair and a thin smile that never looked sincere, leaned forward first. "The solution is easy. His province should be given to one of the high-standing nobles under him. That way, the province remains managed, and order is kept."
A few murmured agreement, nodding.
But Count Duskbane interrupted, his tone sharp. "I disagree. The land should pass under the authority of the lord of the region. Nobles are not strong enough to hold such a territory. It must be overseen properly, and that means by higher hands."
The room stirred.
Marky narrowed his eyes. "So you mean to rob those who've served the duke faithfully? Why give it to the lord when there are capable men beneath him already?"
"Capable men who couldn't even keep their own master alive?" Duskbane shot back.
The volume in the chamber rose as others chimed in, some siding with Marky, others with Duskbane. The argument spread like wildfire. Voices overlapped, fists slammed against wood, and still nothing settled.
Dorian leaned his cheek against his palm, watching them from the end of the table. The debate bored him, every argument predictable, every insult recycled. His eyes drifted, half-lidded, almost as though he were dozing.
At last Herbert banged his hand on the table. "Enough! We are not here to bicker like children!"
But before the quiet could fully return, Dorian's voice cut through.
"Hellhounds."
The word snapped attention toward him.
"What?" one lord demanded, eyes narrowing.
Dorian sat back in his chair, his smirk widening. "You remind me of them. Hellhounds. Guarding treasures that don't even belong to you. Snarling, snapping, fighting over scraps, when the truth is none of you deserve it."
Gasps and angry mutters rippled across the table. A few nobles stiffened as though they might leap to their feet.
"You should watch your tongue, Lord Dorian," another warned.
"Why should I?" His voice dropped, low but clear. "You're all fighting over a dead man's province. Scrambling like dogs for his wealth, but not one of you bothers to ask the real question."
Silence pressed into the room, heavy and unyielding.
Dorian's smirk vanished, his expression darkening as his eyes found Duke Evernight.
"Not one of you asks who killed him."