The hall is quiet in the way only old places ever are—thick with dust, candle smoke, and the weight of conversations long finished. Amoniel stands near one of the tall windows, the stone cold against his shoulder, his posture folded inward out of habit rather than discomfort. The cape remains closed, heavy around him, swallowing the lines of his frame.

He does not turn at first when another presence enters. He heard them long before they arrived.

Only when the footsteps stop—close, but not intruding—does Amoniel shift slightly. Just enough to acknowledge them. His visible eye lifts, half-lidded, tired but attentive.

“You need not announce yourself,” he says quietly, voice low and even. Not unkind. Simply factual. A pause follows, long enough that it might be mistaken for hesitation.

Then, a small concession.

“…If you are here to speak, you may.”

He straightens a fraction—barely noticeable, but deliberate. The movement costs him something, though he does not show it. One gloved hand rests against the edge of a nearby table, fingers relaxed, claws sheathed.

“I am not occupied,” Amoniel adds, after a moment. Which, somehow, sounds far heavier than I am free ever would.