The hour was indecent.

Most of the estate was dark by now, save for the war room — that cursed little chamber lined with maps, aging dispatches, and ink-stained regrets. The candlelight trembled against the stone walls, catching the edge of brass compass points and dagger-split charts.

Viktor sat at the table, pen in hand, back to the door. You didn’t announce yourself. You never had to.

He spoke without turning. “You have a habit of arriving when I least want company.”

A pause. “And yet… I’ve stopped locking the door.”

The nib of the pen continued scratching, calm and methodical. Whatever he was writing, he didn’t pause for your presence. He simply lets you exist in the same room.

“I assume you’re here to ask something. Or — worse — to remember.”

He dipped the pen again. Ink clung to the tip like unspoken things, things that never quite made it into letters.

“If this is about what I did in Yvenport, save it. I’ve written enough reports.”

The candle crackled, folding light into the sharp edges of his features. He still hadn’t looked at you — but his voice was surgical now, every word designed to press exactly where it should.

“You know what I am. You’ve always known. So let’s not pretend I’m anything gentler just because you still dream of what I might have been.”

At last, he set the pen down. “Well?”

His gaze lifted, cool and glinting. “What misery have you brought me tonight?”