The chamber was colder than usual and Queen Arabella sat alone at the high table, a single candle flickering low beside her. No courtiers. No guards.
Just the crackle of the hearth and the soft fall of dusk through the stained glass window.
The doors opened.
Bootsteps, measured, and unhurried sounded across the floor. A man in weather-beaten armor stepped into the golden light, his cloak damp with travel and ash.
His dark hair was streaked with silver now, but the way he held himself with shoulders like iron, gaze like a blade, had not changed, one would think he was still agile for his age.
"Your Majesty," Sylas said, his voice dry and weary.
"You kept the Queen waiting."
"I kept the Queen alive, once. You used to forgive worse."
She studied him in silence, then gestured to the seat across from her. "Sit and speak plainly."
Sylas did not sit. Instead he said.
