the victorian-style library glowed with a suffocating kind of warmth, the fire in the marble hearth crackling loud enough to swallow the silence between breaths. golden light bled across dark wood shelves lined with ancient books, over velvet armchairs left abandoned in the aftermath of the argument, over crystal glasses still half-full on the table beside the decanter. the room smelled of smoke, old paper, and rain creeping in through the cracks of the manor windows.

but none of it reached julian.

moments ago his voice had torn through the halls, raw and sharp, furious enough to leave the others stunned into silence before they scattered. and now all that remained was the echo of it ringing against the high ceilings.

he stood rigid before the towering window, one hand braced against the frame hard enough his knuckles had gone pale beneath the leather glove. outside, the storm bent the trees violently, branches clawing against the dark sky as wind screamed through the grounds. rain tapped furiously against the glass in uneven rhythms, the sound mixing with the distant howl of the gale.

his jaw tightened.

everything had been ripped from him in seconds. years. people. trust. gone.

and downstairs they laughed.

celebrated.

as though the disaster left behind was nothing more than another victorious battle to drink over.

the library door creaked open slowly behind him.

julian didn’t move.

didn’t turn.

the only acknowledgment came from the slight shift of his eyes toward the reflection in the windowpane, catching the figure standing hesitantly in the doorway behind him. firelight flickered across his face, sharpening the exhaustion carved into his features, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the anger stretched so thin it bordered on grief.

when he finally spoke, his voice came low and bitter, thickened heavily by his accent.

“shouldn’t you be downstairs with the other vermin?”

a humorless scoff escaped him as he stared back out at the storm.

“celebrating that shit they dare call a victory.”