CHAPTER 392: CHAPTER 392: NEW EVENTS

By late morning, Fitzgeralt Manor was humming with activity. The building was technically a residence, but anyone who had ever entered knew better: it was a government wing disguised as a home, a palace that served as a state within a state. The private quarters were connected to the west wing by glass corridors, where Trevor’s office looked out over the gardens and helipad beyond.

He preferred to work here rather than in the city tower; the security was tighter, and the silence carried authority. Every piece of furniture had been chosen for both beauty and function: mahogany desks, reinforced glass panels, and muted lighting that adjusted automatically depending on the hour.

Trevor stood by the panoramic window for a moment, sleeves rolled up, jacket discarded across the chair. Beyond the reflective glass, the manor’s outer grounds stretched in perfect symmetry: white stone walkways, trimmed hedges, and distant patrol drones gliding like silent hawks.

"Border briefings are ready, my lord," his assistant said, entering with a tablet. "And the Imperial Council confirmed your new title this morning. The letter of appointment is waiting for a signature."

"Good," Trevor replied, taking the tablet. The word "Marquis" looked strange beside his name, too formal, too static for a man who preferred action. Still, it fit the Empire’s narrative: the steady hand, the dependable strategist, the one who could keep Palatine’s borders from unraveling.

He placed the tablet on the table beside the open files. Holographic projections lit up above the desk, maps, shipment data, and security patterns. "Show me the southern perimeter feed first."

The assistant tapped once, and the projection shifted to a glowing topographic map.

"Cargo movements are increasing along the D’Argente corridor," she explained. "Mostly civilian, but the timing suggests smuggling operations piggybacking on legitimate routes. The last scan picked up temperature spikes consistent with concealed fuel tanks."

Trevor studied the data silently, his jaw set in quiet focus. "Send the coordinates to the field division. I want our drones scanning twenty kilometers deeper than protocol. If they’re testing response times, they’ll repeat the run tonight."

"Yes, my lord."

He moved to the side console, switching the display to the northern sectors. The manor’s office wasn’t just for formality; it was directly linked to the Imperial Defense Network, an honor granted only to members of the crown’s inner circle. Every data feed that reached the palace also reached him.

"The Donin border sensors?" he asked.

"Operational, but integration with the AI alert system is still incomplete."

Trevor’s tone sharpened, though not unkindly. "Tell the engineers to update the predictive model. I want error margins under one percent by the end of the week. If the capital can afford a new marble wing for Parliament, it can afford working sensors."

The assistant hesitated, then nodded quickly. "Understood."

When the door closed behind her, silence settled again. Trevor exhaled, bracing both hands on the edge of his desk. From here, the gardens below looked immaculate, almost unreal. Somewhere beyond those walls, Windstone was probably supervising deliveries and pretending not to let Lucas bully him into another round of dessert before lunch.

Trevor’s chest tightened with a mix of fondness and disbelief.

He’d spent years building control: over companies, over politics, over the endless churn of imperial negotiations. And now, one barefoot omega in an oversized shirt had managed to turn his fortress into a domestic circus where breakfast included caramel and defiance.

A small sound drew his attention back to the desk, his comm line blinking softly. He pressed the receiver. "Yes?"

"Lord Fitzgeralt," came General Carvell’s voice, filtered but firm. "We’ve reviewed your proposal for the southern patrol expansion. The Imperial Council wants confirmation that you’ll personally oversee the first inspection."

"I will," Trevor said simply.

"You’ll need to coordinate with Duchess D’Argente’s office. Her trade fleet shares the same corridor."

"Then I’ll contact her after the afternoon session."

A pause, then Carvell’s low chuckle. "Always efficient. How’s your household?"

Trevor hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Peaceful. For now."

"Good. Keep it that way. The Empire needs stability at the top, even if it’s domestic."

The line clicked off.

Trevor leaned back in his chair, the faint hum of the security panels filling the space. His gaze drifted toward the photograph resting near the edge of the desk, an image Windstone had insisted on framing: Lucas in the manor garden, pretending not to notice the camera, sunlight tangled in his hair.

Trevor smiled faintly, tapping the frame once before turning back to his work. "Chaos and sugar," he muttered under his breath. "That’s what I’ve married into."

The soft chime of the office door interrupted the stillness.

Trevor didn’t look up at first, he knew the rhythm of Windstone’s footsteps too well: measured, unhurried, each one carrying the kind of composure only decades of service could produce.

"Windstone," Trevor said, straightening. "You’re early."

The butler closed the door behind him with quiet precision, his gloves tucked neatly into one hand. His usual composure remained, but his tone carried a rare undercurrent of gravity. "I thought it best not to delay, my lord. There’s news from our teams and Duchess D’Argente."

Trevor’s attention sharpened. "Go on."

"Benedict has been sighted in the city."

For a heartbeat, the office went still. Even the low hum of the holo-screens seemed to fade into the background.

Trevor’s fingers flexed once against the edge of the desk. "Where?"

"The eastern quarter," Windstone replied. "He’s been moving through private medical facilities and diplomatic residences under false names. Duchess Serathine’s network tracked him through a pattern of encrypted financial movements. He’s not being discreet."

Trevor’s jaw tightened, though his tone remained even. "He never is when he wants to send a message."

Windstone nodded once. "There’s more. Count Christian Velloran contacted the Duchess directly this morning. He’s in pursuit of Benedict."

That made Trevor’s head lift sharply. "Velloran?"

"Yes, my lord." Windstone’s voice dropped, carrying weight that didn’t need emphasis. "He claims his past actions, particularly those regarding Lord Lucas, were not his own. Benedict had been controlling him. Through his pheromones."

Trevor’s expression didn’t change, but the faint tension in his shoulders told another story. "He managed to break free?"