He found them in the lowest part of the west wing, inside a partially sealed drawing room where the fire had long since gone out.
George Claymore was on his knees in front of a thick door lined with glowing sigils. His sleeves were rolled up, knuckles raw from magic strain, his coat half-off, breath rising in ragged clouds. His usually perfect hair was damp with sweat, streaked across his forehead.
The glamour of nobility was gone. What remained was just a man clinging to someone on the other side of a cursed door.
Alexander didn't announce himself.
He stepped through the threshold like a shadow cast by command, the door sealing behind him with a soft click. One of the other agents flanked the entry, quickly warding off the room.
"Unless you're here to kill me," George said hoarsely, eyes not leaving the sigils, "go away."
"I'm not here to kill you," Alexander replied.
