The library of Duke's Manor.
Quills scratched parchment, the fireplace hissed softly as slow-burning coals smoldered, and advisors gathered around the long oak table like crows circling a battlefield. Their voices wove through discussions of grain levies, land disputes, and troop rotations along the northern border.
It was a normal day. Routine.
Berith sat at the head of the table, gloved fingers curled around a stack of unsigned decrees. Yet beneath, his skin itched with a restless pulse.
A pulse beat wrong in his veins as though something ancient had been disturbed and had begun to rattle the cage he'd built deep inside himself. His right hand twitched involuntarily as he reached to rub his chest. The muscles in his forearm coiled unnaturally, as if resisting some invisible force.
Across the room, Silas stood watching. He never hovered but Berith could feel his gaze.
"...and in regard to the port taxes," one aide said, sliding a document toward him.
