The door didn't open.
It detonated.
Lord Meyrn of Veyranne walked into Auren's study like a storm that had been holding its breath for three days and finally decided to exhale. Black hair swept back from a face carved from granite and fury. Green eyes — the same shade as Elyra's, the same shade as the woman Auren had married and was now trying to unmake — burning with the kind of cold fire that didn't need shouting.
That was the thing about Meyrn. When he shouted, you could survive it. When he went quiet, you started writing your will.
He was quiet now.
Auren stood behind his desk. He'd been reading troop reports — or pretending to. The words had blurred an hour ago, replaced by the same three thoughts circling his skull like vultures over a dying animal. Elyra. The annulment. What have I done.
Meyrn closed the door behind him. Softly. The click of the latch sounded like a coffin lid.
"Sit down, boy."
