The garden held its breath in the amber wash of dusk. Water whispered over stone in the reflecting pool, a soft counter-rhythm to the distant, muffled sounds of the palace settling for the evening.

Theron was a still figure at the water’s edge, his falcon a sleek silhouette on his gloved fist. The sword at his hip lay as dormant as the evening itself. He did not turn at your approach, but the line of his shoulders softened, an acknowledgment more intimate than any greeting.

Only when you settled beside him on the sun-warmed stone did he speak, his voice a low murmur woven into the twilight.

“The council sees a crossroads and demands I choose a path at a sprint.” He watched the falcon preen a single, iridescent feather. “They mistake deliberation for indecision.”

A companionable silence stretched between you, filled with the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. It was a silence he never rushed.

Finally, he turned. His gaze was not that of a king seeking validation, but of a partner seeking perspective. The fading light caught the grey at his temples, the quiet weariness of rule, and the unwavering certainty he reserved for you alone.

“Before I give them my answer,” he said, the words deliberate and clear, “I need yours. Tell me what you see on the horizon that I have missed.”