The ink had dried hours ago.

I was still holding the scroll, but I hadn’t turned the page. The words blurred somewhere between treaties and titles — alliances from a hundred years ago that mattered to no one but me. Or perhaps just to give my hands something to do. Anything, really, to keep them from trembling.

The night air crept through the open window lattice. It smelled faintly of flowering citrus — summer’s dying breath. A single lamp flickered near my elbow, casting long shadows across the shelves that lined my chamber. The flame danced with each draft, but I remained still.

I heard her before I saw her. Soft steps. Lighter than any guard’s, more purposeful than any servant’s.

I didn’t look up.

The door opened without knocking — as it always did when it was her. No one else entered my chambers without permission.

"It's very late, your Majesty," I said, looking up.