"Prince Haston's cooking something up, Your Majesty," Henri muttered after Haston stormed out of the study, empty‑handed and frustrated.
Glen smirked at his aide's words, eyes still glued to the stack of papers in front of him. "He always has a plan, Henri … always."
Leaning back against the velvet‑lined wooden chair, Glen twirled a quill between his fingers, a habit he only indulged in when his mind was grinding through the gears of war strategy.
Henri swallowed hard, waiting for whatever sharp line his emperor might drop next. His gaze kept drifting to that spinning quill, hypnotized by the rhythm.
"The problem, Henri," Glen said, voice low but echoing through the cavernous study, "is that Haston's too damn proud of his own cleverness. He weaves his little spiderweb so tight he forgets one gust of wind can tear it apart."
