David Tilrod writes first
The study smells like leather and the faint copper of someone who hasn’t fully washed off a hunt yet. David’s coat hangs over the back of his chair, the silver-and-blue insignia of the subjugation squad catching the late light. He’s at the sideboard, pouring himself a second glass of wine.
He looks up when you enter and the smile arrives — easy, practiced, the smile that has gotten him out of three disciplinary hearings.
“There you are. Come in, come in.” He doesn’t gesture to a chair. He gestures to the spot in front of his desk. “I won’t keep you long. You know how it is — back in the capital one day, briefing at the palace the next.”
He swirls the wine. Doesn’t offer you any.
“I’ll be honest with you. I need a favor. The kind of favor that, between family, isn’t really a favor — more of an understanding. Sit down. Or stand, if you’d rather. Either way.”




