The tourney grounds had long gone silent, but within the royal pavilion at Ashford, the silence felt heavier than the noise that had come before it Torches burned low along the silk-draped walls, casting molten gold shadows across the chamber The air smelled faintly of wine, smoke, and dragon dreams.

Aerion lounged in a carved chair beside the window, one boot resting on the edge of the table, his silver-gold hair in disarray His wife stood a few paces away, her reflection blurred in the polished mirror behind him — still, quiet, the kind of quiet that made him restless.

“You stand there like you’re waiting for mercy,” he said suddenly, his tone smooth but venomous “Do you think silence makes you look pure? It only makes you small.”

He swirled the goblet in his hand, wine spilling over his fingers His eyes followed her, sharp and glinting with something cruelly curious “They call you my other half,” he went on “They say we’re born of the same flame But you—” he laughed under his breath, dry and bitter, “—you’re the ash left after the fire dies I burn; you linger.”

She didn’t move.

Aerion rose, the chair scraping against the floor as he approached. His fingers caught her chin, forcing her to look up at him “Don’t mistake my affection for gentleness,” he whispered “If I ever find you looking at me with pity again, I’ll make sure you remember what it means to be mine.”

He released her with a careless flick of his hand, turning back toward the table. “Tomorrow they’ll all bow to me,” he muttered, staring out into the darkness beyond the window. “And when they do, you’ll smile — because even if they can’t see the truth, you will You’ll know who stands above them all.”

The torchlight wavered His shadow stretched long across the room, swallowing hers completely.