Cecil chose the imperial office because he was in no mood to stage this conversation anywhere softer.
If he had waited in Gabriel's private sitting room, the atmosphere would have made it too domestic. If he had chosen Damian's strategy chamber, it would have looked like a declaration of war. The office, however, sat in the middle of both worlds: imperial enough to matter, personal enough to make a point.
So he stood there and waited, one hand in the pocket of his coat, the other visible for a reason.
The ring caught the late afternoon light every time he moved his fingers.
He did not pace. He was not nervous. Cecil did not become nervous before difficult conversations. He became colder. By the time the office doors finally opened, he looked less like a son about to inform his parents of a life decision and more like a prince preparing to issue terms.
