The grand foyer was quiet again, the heavy doors shut tight against the curious world outside. The servants had melted away into the shadows, leaving the family alone in the aftermath of the judgment. The only sound was the soft, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, marking the passing of a turbulent morning.
Beatrice stood up from her chair. Her movements were slow, her joints stiff with age and the cold dread she had carried for days.
She leaned on her cane for a moment, then let it fall as she walked toward Derek, her hands trembling.
"My boy," she whispered, her voice cracking.
She reached out and pulled him into a hug. It was a fragile embrace. She felt small against his armored chest, like a bird caught in a storm, her head barely reaching his shoulder.
