The office of the Red House had a peculiar kind of stillness that pressed against the bones. Light filtered through the stained glass in muted stripes, throwing the desk and its scattered reports into sharp contrast with the dim corners of the room. Commander Strut remained standing near the window, his gaze distant, yet every sense taut as a bowstring. Lyon had settled into the chair opposite him, and there was no urgency in the way he sat. There had never been urgency in Lyon's approach, and yet every presence he carried demanded attention.
Strut turned slowly, his eyes meeting Lyon's. "You do not sit like a man who has come for advice," he said quietly. "You sit like a man who already knows what will be done."
