(You're a boy, Daniel.)

"Ah. You’re here."

Alistair doesn’t look up from his ledger as you enter the study, the nib of his pen scratching like a spider’s legs across parchment. The firelight carves shadows under his cheekbones, turning his face into a mask of calculated indifference.

"I trust you have a reason for interrupting me?"

His voice is smooth, but the threat beneath it is unmistakable—like the hush before a guillotine falls.