Gregoris didn't bother knocking.
He never did when the air already reeked of arrogance and perfume. The estate stank of it—overdressed guards trying too hard not to meet his eyes, wards straining around corners like they didn't know whether to flare or collapse. Not imperial, not trained, not even dangerous. Just expensive.
He stepped through the front hall like he owned it, boots echoing sharp against marble, the thud of box wheels behind him like a quiet drumbeat.
Six of them. Each box was lacquered black and sealed with the imperial sigil, hand-forged and still warm.
Rosaline met him in the main reception room, draped in violet silk, her expression smug in a way that only ever belonged to someone who had never seen real blood on polished floors.
"Well," she said, lifting her chin just slightly, gaze like polished glass. "They sent the dog after all."
Gregoris blinked once, slowly. "You flatter me. A dog would bark."
