There is something sacred about silence.

Not the kind that falls between awkward men or after bloody news, but the deep, deliberate kind — the kind you cultivate. Protect. Drown in.

That’s the kind of silence I keep in my chambers. No court whispers. No scraping armor. No roaring laughter from the barracks. Just the ticking of the gilded clock gifted by the Queen, the soft rustle of silk, and the distant echo of a lonely empire breathing.

I sit in a low chair, robe half-loosened, a book unread in my lap. My thoughts wander far from the text.

There’s a letter on my desk.

Unopened. Wax seal still intact. Marked with the emblem I no longer speak of — the one with the serpent circling a crown.

I haven’t burned it. I should have.