The heavy doors of the Vernhardt estate slammed against the stone walls with a violence that echoed like a cannon blast through the hollow foyer. Duke Vernhardt stormed into the hall, his crimson velvet cloak billowing behind him like a trail of fresh blood.
His face was a terrifying sight. The usual mask of aristocratic arrogance had melted into a distorted mess of mottled red and sickly, bile-green. His eyes were bloodshot, bulging with a pressure that looked as though it might burst his very veins. The servants, accustomed to his temper but never to this level of unhinged ferocity, scattered like mice into the shadows, some dropping silver trays and others simply pressing themselves against the cold masonry to avoid his path.
He didn't stop to remove his gloves or his coat. He marched straight toward his private study, his breathing coming in jagged, wheezing hitches.
The meeting at the Imperial Palace had been a slaughter.
