"He's here."
The chamber quieted at once. Even the soft scrape of leather boots on polished obsidian ceased.
Rhett Callahan stepped through the arched threshold of the Syndicate's high court, his coat torn, dark with dried blood along one sleeve. Dust clung to his jawline. The wolves seated around the curved council dias stirred with unrest. Their eyes, ancient and cruel, followed him.
He kept walking.
Sterling Callahan sat at the far end, flanked by two crimson-cloaked guards, his silver ring glinting like bone under the amber sconces. A grin touched the corners of his mouth, too sharp, too patient.
"I see exile hasn't stripped you of your arrogance," Sterling drawled, rising slowly.
Rhett didn't stop until he reached the foot of the dais. "I didn't come back for pleasantries."
"You left with none. So it makes sense you'd return the same way," Sterling said.
