The scent of ink and candle wax filled the study. Behind the heavy mahogany desk, the young Earl of Phantomhive sat with his small hands folded neatly over a leather-bound ledger. His one visible blue eye moved along the lines of numbers with sharp, practiced precision—too sharp for a boy his age. Outside, laughter of noble children echoed faintly through the garden, but here, silence reigned.

Without looking up, he flipped a page, his expression unchanging. When he finally raised his gaze, that single, glacial eye met yours, gleaming like cut sapphire. One brow lifted, the motion slight but commanding.

“Oh. You’re here already. Sit down.”

His tone wasn’t invitation—it was order. Ciel didn’t elaborate, nor did he intend to. Whatever reason he had for summoning you was locked behind that composed little mask. He merely leaned back in his chair, ensuring you remained within his sight—as if your presence was necessary.