The sun hung high in the sky, casting stark shadows across the streets of Downtown Fort Lauderdale. Its warmth felt foreign and unsettling amidst the chaos that unfolded below. A majestic high-rise, once a towering structure of modern architecture, was now engulfed in flames. The fire licked hungrily at the steel and glass, a fiery predator feasting on its prey, spitting embers into the sky like fireflies on a summer evening. Smoke billowed thick and dark, an ominous cloud that suffocated the midday light, transforming the bright day into a mourning twilight.
Agneyastra and her partner, Greg, emerged from the fire truck. The air was heavy with the acrid scent of burning materials, mingling with the sharp tang of sweat. Despite the chaos surrounding them, her instincts kicked in, driving her to prepare for the battle against the relentless blaze. They moved with practiced efficiency, a well-rehearsed dance born of countless emergencies. Greg, with his rugged frame and calm demeanor, swept his gaze across the chaotic scene, assessing the damage, looking for the stories hidden beneath the layers of shock and fear etched on the faces of the onlookers.
“Stay back! Please, give us room!” he called out, his voice cutting through the crackling of flames and murmurs of the crowd. Some of the people stood in a daze, while others watched with wide eyes, their faces reflecting disbelief and unease.
“What happened?” Greg pressed, his brows furrowing deeply as he observed the blank stares of the gathered crowd.
A young man, his clothes singed at the edges, stepped forward, trembling slightly. “He told us we would be rewarded,” he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, as if he feared that saying it too loudly might draw unwanted attention back to the inferno.
Agneyastra squatted beside the hose, her eyes scanning the scene the way a hawk surveys the ground below. The tension in the air was palpable, and she could feel the weight of confusion pressing against her chest. As Greg walked over to her, a look of urgency etched on his face, she could see his concern mirrored in the grim set of his jaw.
“What did they say?” she inquired, adrenaline surging through her veins as she tightened the buckles on her gear.
“I think they are in shock,” he replied, his voice low, as though speaking above a whisper might summon more trouble. “Let me handle the crowd. Go check out the building.”
The air was thick with heat and the acrid scent of burning materials, while the desperate cries of trapped souls whirled into the miasma, weaving hooks of dread around their hearts. Agneyastra's sense of purpose surged in synchrony with the inferno’s roar. Suddenly, Agneyastra felt a pair of hands seize her from behind, yanking her away from the frantic scene. Before she could react, the world spun as they hurled her through the flames, unconscious to the pain until she landed in the wreckage of an adjacent building, breathless and dazed.
Rising from the ashes, Agneyastra shook off the stupor gripping her limbs. She blinked against the smoke-stained air, her senses homing in on a voice that tumbled through the heat like a malevolent whisper. “How is one creature like you created?” The words slithered around her like smoke, familiar yet unnervingly sinister.
She steeled herself, scanning her surroundings for the source of that voice. “I don’t know what you are talking about!” Agneyastra shouted, but the flames seemed to respond, swirling around her as if alive, drawing her deeper into the unseen dimensions of her powers.
From the shadows, the voice morphed into form, an ominous figure emerging from the haze. The Green Demon, clad in ethereal allure with dark shades masking his intentions, materialized like a phantom. His voice dripped with honeyed malice. “My beloved Enoch will reward me greatly if I return to him with your powers. You are a precious scar upon this world, Agneyastra. You possess the rare confluence of Love and Sacrifice.”
Agneyastra’s heart thundered in her chest, a tempest of resolve and rage washing over her. “Shut up! Reveal yourself so I can end you!” Her voice trembled with intensity as she brandished an axe, its blade gleaming defiantly in the heat.
He stepped closer, an enigmatic smile curving his lips. “I would bring worlds to their knees, rediscover all that was stolen from me, if I could wield your power.”
“I can help you,” she implored, her voice softening. “You don’t have to do this. You can find peace just like Magari.”
The Green Demon flickered with amusement, his form shifting in a gossamer flash. “Oh, Agneyastra, there is only one way you can help me.” He produced a syringe, glinting ominously in the firelight, a vial attached that seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. “Fill this syringe with your powers.”
Agneyastra’s stomach dropped at his proposition. “Why would I ever make a deal with you?”
“Because,” he replied, his voice both silky and sharp, “I know how to remove the golden demon from Jeremy without killing him. Your beloved lives on, but you must sacrifice your powers.”
An icy cold gripped her heart. “I would die,” she breathed, the weight of his words crashing down like the very flames surrounding her.
“Yes,” he affirmed, drawing closer, “but Jeremy can continue to care for Lee.”
Before she could fully comprehend the horrors lurking in his offer, Greg burst through the inferno, desperately calling her name. “Agney!”
The sound of his voice was a lifeline amidst the chaos. Agneyastra opened her eyes, disoriented but resolute. She looked around, both alarmed and determined. “He is in here!” she shouted.
Greg rushed toward her, urgency evident in every movement. He helped Agneyastra to her feet, the heat no longer just an external threat but a furious whirlwind that seemed to rally around them, fueled by their shared purpose. Greg asks, “Who was in there?”
Agneyastra leaned against the weathered firetruck, its red exterior gleaming dully under the flickering lights of the scene, the acrid scent of smoke lingering in the air like a ghost that refused to dissipate. The chaos of sirens had quieted, leaving behind the gentle crackle of embers and the heavy, rhythmic thud of boots on asphalt as her fellow firefighters moved about methodically, ensuring the last of the flames was extinguished.
She turned her gaze from the charred remnants of the building that had once stood proud and vibrant in downtown Fort Lauderdale, now reduced to a skeletal husk, its blackened beams jutting out like broken teeth. The glow of the dying fire danced across her face, illuminating the sadness etched in her features—a juxtaposition to the heroism of the moment. Her heart felt heavy, an anchor in the storm of her thoughts, as she murmured, “No one.”
Greg, standing beside her, shifted his weight slightly, the comforting presence of a partner in arms. His gaze flitted from Agneyastra to the emergency workers and then back to her, a knowing sadness reflecting in his deep-set eyes. He could sense the weight of her words, the unspoken horror behind them. They both knew the stakes in their line of work, yet it never became easier to confront the moments when they failed to save someone—those precious lives that slipped through their fingers like wisps of smoke.
As the last vestiges of hope flickered away with the flames, Agneyastra wiped her soot-streaked hands on her gear, grounding herself against the rising tide of emotions. Her thoughts spiraled, envisioning the faces that might have filled the corridors of the now-gutted building—faces that would remain forever unknown. She bit her lip, fighting back a swell of tears, the reflection of the flames mirrored in her eyes.
“Sometimes, it’s beyond our control,” Greg said quietly, but she could hear the tremor in his voice. He placed a hand on her shoulder, solid and grounding. “We did everything we could.”
***
The sun hung low in the sky, casting golden rays that danced over the rolling fields of the Dweller farmlands. Ramil, with his tousled dark hair and defiant gaze, stood at the threshold of the large farmhouse, its timbered structure. The scent of damp earth and blooming wildflowers wafted through the open door, mingling with the sweetness of impending summer.
Without warning, the door slammed open, leaving him startled. In an impulsive rush, Sandra swept past him, her lilting laughter echoing like a melody of danger and delight. And in one fleeting moment, driven by a reckless passion that defied the norms of their worlds, she pulled him into a kiss that tasted of urgency and longing.
“Ramil!” she exclaimed, her voice a hushed fervor, “They have to get going soon, back to the Water Kingdom.” As she stepped back, her luminous eyes sparkled with a blend of mischief and concern, but they then locked onto the presence of Fred—the Dweller Warrior standing imposingly like a granite statue just beyond the threshold.
“What is this all about?” she inquired, brows knitting in curiosity. The stunned silence hung like thick fog in the air as Fred’s eyes widened, caught off guard by the spectacle before him.
“Ramil is being summoned to speak with Marudeva,” Fred replied, his voice steady yet edged with the tension of duty and expectation. His glass armor gleamed dully in the fading sunlight.
“I will be along shortly,” Ramil assured, though shadows flickered across his face, darkness overshadowing the golden glow of day. He closed the door gently, isolating their moment from the encroaching reality of politics and peril.
Turning to Sandra, he let his fingers glide over her arm, a gentle caress that spoke more than words could convey. “Sometimes I despise my father,” he muttered, a simmering frustration spilling from his heart. The weight of legacy bore heavily on him, a chain forged by lineage and expectation. “You must see to it that they return safely to the Water Kingdom—with none the wiser.”
Her gaze flickered, but the moment held too much gravity to linger in unspoken emotions. Their lips met again, a sweet yet somber farewell that kindled fire within a heart longing for change.
As Ramil stepped away, he reached for the sword leaning against the wall. The blade was a reminder of his past battles. With purposeful strides, he mounted his horse, a creature forged from ash, its presence ethereal yet commanding. He rode off down the winding path, the farmhouse shrinking behind him to a backdrop of distant but looming mountains.
The morning light draped over Dweller City, casting a golden hue that twinkled over the dew-kissed rooftops and dirt paths. Ramil, astride his striking steed born from ash and embers, cut through the still air, the ground trembling under the gallop of the mythical creature. As he rode, the sound of hooves echoed his inner turmoil, rising and falling like the wild rhythm of his thoughts.
Arriving at the largest house on the dirt road, a magnificent structure wrought from pale stone and adorned with intricate carvings, Ramil dismounted with a graceful urgency. He caught sight of Rufus, a familiar figure bent over the flowerbed that flourished against the rustic charm of the front yard. The flowers, bright and vibrant, seemed a stark contrast to the chaos brewing in Ramil's heart.
“My father failed to water the plants again,” he teased, his voice attempting to mask the worry swirling within him.
The bright laugh of Rufus chimed in response. “No, but these weeds beside them need to be removed,” he pointed out, his eyes glinting with mischief. “He is inside, in his office.”
With a nod, Ramil strode through the wooden door, its hinges creaking a muted welcome. The scent of aged paper and leatherbound tomes enveloped him as he stepped inside. His father’s study bore the weight of years and wisdom, for it housed not just scrolls of ancient knowledge but the heavy burden of familial expectations.
As he paused at the foot of the grand staircase, memories flooded back—memories of heated arguments and heartfelt confessions exchanged with Agneyastra. Just the thought of her made his heart ache, a bittersweet echo of the moments they once cherished together. His reverie was shattered by the commanding voice of his father, Marudeva, as he emerged from a shadowy alcove, his figure tall and paramount against the dim light of the study.
“I’m glad you came so quickly,” Marudeva said, a serious note lacing his words. Ramil swallowed hard, sensing the gravity hanging in the air. “What do you require of me, Father?”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Marudeva looked troubled, his brow etched with deep lines of concern. “Emathion has written to me. Agneyastra has been influenced by a demon.”
Ramil's heart plummeted into a chasm of disbelief. “That is impossible. She is part Keener.” His own voice felt foreign as the words escaped.
“Just kill the demon and bring them home. King Aiden has made his final arrangements,” Marudeva’s voice was resolute, like the unyielding strength of the mountains that encircled their home.
“What if the Archangels find out about her abilities?” Ramil challenged, desperation creeping into his tone. “Tyson put us all at risk lying to them, just to carry on his family line. If he truly cares about Agney, he should just leave her be and destroy that portal, so she can never return.”
Marudeva’s eyes darkened with anger and sorrow. “What about the demon plaguing them? You cannot just walk away, Ramil.”
“She chose to leave me… I mean us,” Ramil spat out, his voice thick with emotion. “Let that demon consume her or anyone else in that realm—I don’t care anymore.” Each word felt like ice on his lips; he remembered with painful clarity the love they once shared, now turned to bitterness.
“Stop this now!” Marudeva’s voice boomed like a thunderstorm, cutting through the haze of Ramil’s conflict. “You will go, assist them, and bring Agney, Emathion, and Sinai home. Go. Don’t return until you have completed this task.” The echo of his father’s command reverberated through the room, and Ramil felt the weight of shadows press around him. He held his gaze on Marudeva, as he turned to leave.
Ramil's voice dripped with sarcasm as he replied, “Yes, father, I will do as you ordered.” The words were laced with a mixture of defiance and resentment, echoing in the air like a fading specter. He turned sharply, his heel striking the polished floorboards with a sharp crack that reverberated through the grand hall. With a forceful shove, he slammed the heavy oak door behind him. He stepped back out into the dawn, ready to face the trials awaiting him, riding on a heart made of ashes.
***
The first rays of sunlight streamed through the majestic windows of the Earth Kingdom Palace, casting warm golden splashes across the marbled floors and intricately carved pillars. Morning echoed with the soft chirping of birds, creating a tranquil contrast to the weight of the world inside. As Moriko moved through the familiar corridors, the remnants of her unease lingered in the air like the fading fragrance of last night’s jasmine tea.
Walking alongside her companions, Yeongi and Alyona, Moriko felt the heaviness of absence. Each step felt intentional yet distant, her heart tethered to the empty office of Emathion. She halted, her gaze drawn to the unoccupied room, where the remnants of a vibrant life still lingered—the faint scent of sandalwood, the quiet rustle of parchment, and the echo of laughter that once filled the space.
“I miss him so much,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet it resonated in the stillness around them.
Yeongi, ever perceptive, stepped closer, her fingers brushing against Moriko’s back in a soothing gesture that conveyed more warmth than words could ever express. “Your husband will be home shortly,” she reassured, her voice gentle and hopeful, akin to the whisper of leaves in a calming breeze.
Moriko’s brow furrowed with concern. “Is Tyson okay? I saw him leaving early this morning,” she inquired, her heart clenching at the thought of her close friend in distress.
“There’s too much sorrow there,” Yeongi replied, her eyes reflecting empathy and understanding. “His father will pass soon, and he went to be with him.” The weight of impending loss hung heavily between them, thickening the air like an approaching storm.
“Does Tyson need you?” Moriko asked softly, her voice hardly more than a breath. In that moment, she understood the depth of bond, the invisible threads that bind their souls together, yearning to offer solace in the face of grief.
Yeongi gave a reassuring smile, though sadness flickered within her eyes. “I want to stay here with you for a few more days,” she replied, a flicker of resolve illuminating her expression. The loyalty in her voice filled Moriko with gratitude, offering a glimmer of hope amidst the darkness.
Alyona, ever the diligent assistant, stood poised with a clipboard clasped in her hands, her features sharp yet kind. “Moriko, you have some appointments today. They wait for you in the throne room,” she said, breaking the heavy silence with a note of urgency tempered by duty.
Moriko took a deep breath, the responsibilities of her title wrapping around her like a cloak. “Let’s get the day started,” she declared, masking her vulnerability with the armor of leadership. With renewed purpose, she moved past Emathion’s office, allowing herself to relinquish the weight of loss, if only temporarily.
As Moriko followed Yeongi and Alyona toward the throne room, she steeled herself against the cacophony of emotions swirling within her. The halls of the palace, adorned with vibrant tapestries that told stories of ancient heroes and shimmering crystals that caught the light, seemed to hum with anticipation. They turned the corner into a grand chamber, where the throne—the symbol of power and responsibility—sat waiting like an old friend.
The throne room of the Earth Kingdom castle was a majestic sight, adorned with rich tapestries depicting the kingdom’s storied history, vibrant murals of its landscapes, and the shimmering light filtering through intricately designed stained glass windows. The air was thick with the scent of fresh earth and blooming flowers, a reminder of the kingdom’s abundant natural resources. Tucked away in the heart of this grand space sat Queen Moriko, beside her, Yeongi, exuded an air of calm wisdom.
As the heavy wooden doors creaked open, a crack of sunlight illuminated the room, casting a golden hue over the polished stone floor. Alyona, a spirited aide with a heart full of hope, stepped through the threshold, her eyes shining with excitement. Behind her, a humble yet determined villager named Fenella followed, struggling slightly with a cart laden with an assortment of items—colorful fabrics woven with love, freshly harvested vegetables, and small handmade crafts that reflected the skill and artistry of the Earth Kingdom’s people.
“Queen Moriko, this is Fenella from the small villages near the ruby mines,” Alyona announced, her voice carrying the weight of reverence. The villagers were known for their resilience, and Fenella’s face was a map of that strength, lined with the wisdom of countless seasons.
Queen Moriko leaned forward in her seat, a warm smile gracing her lips as she regarded the villager with genuine curiosity. “As your Queen, how can I assist you in your issue?” she asked, her tone both regal and approachable, reflecting her belief that a monarch’s duty was to listen and serve.
Fenella straightened, her gaze unwavering as she met the queen's eyes. “I have no issue,” she stated simply, the earnestness in her voice clear as the mountain streams.
Moriko’s brow furrowed in confusion. “Why did you schedule this appointment to see me?” she pressed, tilting her head ever so slightly, a gesture that suggested intrigue mingled with her authority.
With a gentle gesture, Fenella pointed to the cart brimming with offerings, her pride evident. “I came to offer tribute to you for being such a great ruler, my Queen.”
The queen’s expression softened, a touch of surprise coloring her features. “Thank you,” she replied, the joy in her voice dancing like sunlight on water. Yet there was a flutter of uncertainty in her heart. She turned to Yeongi, seeking his counsel, and asked, “Is this normal? I have never heard of such a custom.”
Yeongi’s wise eyes sparkled with understanding. “It’s rare, Your Majesty,” he answered, his voice steady. “But it means your people are happy with you being their queen.”
Moriko stood, her royal garments flowing like the earth beneath her feet as she stepped down from the elevated throne. With grace, she approached Fenella, narrowing the distance between them. As she drew closer, the weight of the moment sank into her being this was not merely a tribute but a genuine expression of gratitude.
“I will accept your gift today,” Moriko declared, the sincerity of her statement reverberating through the hall like a melodic bell. “But in the future, the only thing I require is the happiness of the Earth Kingdom’s people.” The humility of her words seemed to transform the air; Fenella’s face lit up, a smile breaking across her weathered features.
***
The sun hung high above the Dweller desert, casting a golden haze over the undulating dunes that stretched far beyond the horizon. Sandra, cloaked in a flowing indigo tunic that fluttered against the biting wind, rode her horse with a heavy heart. Its hooves sank into the shifting sands, stirring up plumes of dust that danced in the warm air, much like the thoughts swirling in her mind. Beside her, Evain’s vibrant auburn hair shimmered like flames against the vastness of the desert, while Enlil, small and energetic, clutched tightly to his sister's waist, eyes alight with the thrill of the ride.
As they approached Evain’s horse standing majestically amid the dunes, Sandra felt a weight bearing down on her chest. A gentle breeze played with her hair, teasing it across her face, but it couldn’t lift the melancholy that had settled there. Evain, ever the perceptive one, sensed the change in mood instantly. She glanced over her shoulder, her emerald eyes narrowing with concern. “Don’t tell me you miss Ramil,” Evain half-joked, her voice light, but her tone held a softness that promised understanding.
“It is not that,” Sandra replied, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the burden of unspoken truth.
Evain reined in her horse and drew closer, her gloved hand reaching out to gently rub Sandra’s arms. The warmth of her touch contrasted sharply with the cool desert breeze, and she leaned in, her breath a soothing melody against Sandra’s ear. “You can tell me anything.”
The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unrelenting rush of sand shifting beneath them. Sandra took a deep breath, her heart pounding against her ribs like a wild creature seeking escape. “The only reason why I was visiting Ramil at the farmhouse was to tell him I am pregnant with his child,” she finally admitted, her voice trembling with a mix of fear and confusion. “Then I spent all that time with you and them. Now, I am confused how to proceed.”
As the words tumbled forth, Evain’s expression transformed from concern to compassion. She gently placed her hand on Sandra’s belly, a tender gesture that spoke of hope and solidarity. “If you want, I can tell Ramil when he returns. But for now, come stay with me and Enlil,” she offered, her voice steady, anchoring Sandra in the whirlwind of emotions that threatened to pull her under.
A flicker of doubt crossed Sandra’s features as she gazed into the slanting shadows of the nearby dunes, memories of laughter and warmth mingling with uncertainty. “I don’t know,” she said, the weight of her indecision settling heavily upon her shoulders.
“It’s okay, just think about it,” Evain reassured her, an affectionate smile softening her features as she leaped onto her horse with the grace of a desert hawk. Enlil, his youthful face bright with excitement, nodded enthusiastically. “Come on, Sandra! Water Kingdom is so much fun. You’ll love it!” As the pair rode off into the distance, the rhythmic sound of hooves fading like a distant echo, Sandra remained still for a moment longer, before riding away.
The radiant morning sun spilled golden light through the high windows of King Marius’s office, illuminating the ornate tapestries that hung on the walls, each depicting the valiant history of the Water Kingdom. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the palace’s stone foundation provided a calming backdrop, yet today, it was pierced by the exuberant sound of a ball bouncing against the polished marble floors just outside the door.
With a heavy sigh, Marius leaned back in his chair, the intricate carving of the armrests digging into his palm. He was surrounded by scrolls and ledgers, the affairs of state pressing heavily upon his shoulders. However, the joy of childhood echoes outside was a distraction he could no longer ignore. Rising from his desk, he straightened his royal tunic, its deep azure fabric catching the light, and walked toward the door.
As he opened it, the sight before him brought an involuntary smile to his lips. There, amidst the statuesque soldiers—deployed as guardians of the palace—was a lively girl with sun-drenched hair, bouncing a vibrant ball with an enthusiasm that could ignite the very air around her. The soldiers, usually so stoic and unwavering, chuckled softly at her exuberance, their faces softening momentarily from the weight of their duty.
“What is going on out here?” Marius inquired, his voice firm yet laced with an undertone of amusement.
At the sound of the King’s voice, Wella, the child, halted mid-bounce. She caught the ball deftly in both hands, a burst of delight reflected in her bright, curious eyes. The soldiers quickly resumed their poised stances, casting glances of mingled embarrassment and mirth in her direction.
“I am sorry, King Marius,” she said, curtsying with an exaggerated seriousness that only children seemed to possess.
Marius, with his brow softened by the gentle warmth of the moment, glanced around, taking in the colorful chaos of childhood that had erupted at the foot of his office. “Where is your mother?” he asked, an instinct sharpening his concern. He knew well that Brooke had her hands full with the spirited girl, and moments like this were often ambrosial reliefs in her demanding day.
Just then, a figure appeared at the end of the corridor, her silhouette framed by the sunlight that streamed through the palace’s grand arches. Brooke swept in with urgency tinged with warmth, her long, flowing robe trailing lightly behind her. “There you are, Wella! I’ve been looking for you all over the place!”
She rushed to the child, kneeling to catch Wella’s hands, her face a blend of relief and reprimand. The world around them faded as Brooke noticed Marius, and a swift humility washed over her. She straightened, a gentle flush warming her cheeks as she offered a small, courteous bow. “My apologies, Your Majesty,” she said, the stress of a mother mixed with the reverence for the crown evident in her voice.
“Come on,” she urged, intertwining her fingers with Wella's, “the King can’t be bothered with our games.” There was a lightness in her tone, a dance between formality and affection that spoke volumes about their relationship, one forged by trust and warmth through the years of palace life. As Brooke ushered Wella away, the girl looked back, her wide eyes filled with unspoken questions and an eagerness to play.
Marius stood in a sun-drenched alcove, eyes fixated on the slender figures of Brooke and her young daughter, Wella, as they wandered hand in hand down the corridor. Brooke’s laughter rang like the tinkling of chimes, and Wella spun in delight, her golden curls dancing as if caught in an ethereal tide. The scene pulled at Marius’s heart, a reminder of what could be, but it also weighed heavily with expectation and duty.
“My king,” a baritone voice broke the silence, pulling Marius from his reverie. It was Devereaux clad in a deep navy tunic that accentuated his tall frame. Marius turned to face him, his expression hardening slightly as he noted the intensity in his brother's gaze.
“You should make her your queen,” Devereaux suggested, his tone laced with an earnestness that struck Marius as oddly inappropriate. Submission whispered within the hall.
Marius frowned, irritation swirling inside him like the tide of a gathering storm. “I thought you and your wife were trying for a child,” he replied, striving for neutrality, though he couldn’t suppress the edge in his voice. The weight of the crown pressed down on him, a constant reminder that time was not an ally.
Devereaux’s shoulders sagged, and for a heartbeat, vulnerability flickered across his face, exposing the cracks in the fa?ade of royal duty. “We are trying, but she has miscarried a few already. I believe it might not happen for us,” he confessed, the pain of his words laced with desperation.
“Then, get a new wife.” The words slipped out before Marius could rein them in, harsh and unyielding, as if spoken by a stranger rather than a brother. He packed his emotions into that single statement, a statement weighted with the full expectation of their royal lineage. “I am doing my part, I asked you to do one thing: produce an heir for the Water Kingdom or leave.” The finality of his words hung in the air, stinging like the cold ocean wind as he turned his back, as he strode into his office.
