"You're suggesting that one of our best travelers has gone rogue?" asked Charles.

Victor paced the inlayed floors of the Gryphon's nest, styled as such being the top office of the London branch. A fire blazed and his hand smacked onto the mantle while he pulled out his pocket watch, looking at the glow in the finely polished glass cover.

"He's been missing for weeks since he was last assigned to Austria, or was he even assigned?" retorted Victor. "He seems to think the ministry is his by birthright, based on some nonsensical whims that only god knows. He basically makes his own assignment, going where he pleases."

"I don't appreciate your invalid assumptions."

"And I despise the amount of protection you provide for him when these accusations come up."

Victor eyed Charles, who sat at the desk, eased aback of volumes of papers pushing him to the ends of his chair. The scar on his face menacingly flashed, a mirror reflection only enhanced by his demeaning eyes.

"You can't protect him forever, Charles."

"He needs no protection, Victor. You don't exactly become one of the best travelers by good graces."

Victor paced back to the large wooden desk tracing his fingers across the surface, fingering a brass replication of the world. The thing spun from a well-placed flick, sending it reeling around itself. His finger struck it again stopping it with Europe facing Charles, while the rest of the world faced Victor.

"We all have our favorites," said Victor.

"Apparently, so."

Victor plodded out of the office, turning his head once more with a humph as he came to large doors. Charles eased himself up from his seat folding his hands behind his back.

"Consider this a forewarning," hissed Victor. "I'll be notifying the council."

The doors slammed shut behind him leaving Charles with only the soft howl of wind coursing through the small slit in the windows behind his desk. On one hand, his friend was right, there could be no special cases in the Ministry. History had shown where that path led repeatedly, exemplifying the craving in humans to categorize events as special when emotions were involved.

Charles rubbed the aged creases of his brow, attempting to relieve the throbs that drink could no longer dull. His hands closed the window so only the soft crackling of the fire swayed noise in his office. Who am I kidding, he asked himself. This is no more my office than the Ministry's hold over travel.

A knock on the door pushed him from his thoughts and he yelled for the source to enter. A youth stumbled in, tripping over himself, acting rather unused to the clothes which tightly adorned his lithe frame.

"Sir, your liege, sir," stuttered the boy.

"Enough with the liege, boy," barked Charles thumbing his brow again. "I am no emperor, only a poor old man tired from his duties. Out with it."

"Sorry, your liege, I mean sir, sir," responded the boy. "There's been an incident."

"What kind?" asked Charles.

"A murder, sir."