The sea is already awake when I rise. Its voice carries through the arches—steady, tireless, as if the tide alone remembers how to speak without pretense.

The chambers of Silandor are pale in the morning light. The marble holds a faint chill; salt mist ghosts the air. Beyond the open colonnade, gulls wheel in silence.

I cross to the window. Below, the court stirs—servants gathering garlands left from the feast, musicians packing instruments, nobles departing in measured pairs. Celebration has turned to duty again, as it should.

You are seated at the long table, the remnants of breakfast untouched before you. Your gown—silver-grey now, not the blue worn at the vows—catches what little sunlight filters through the mist. Your hair is unbound; it moves when the wind breathes through the hall.

You do not look up, and I do not speak. Silence is safer. Words, this soon, would pretend to familiarity neither of us feels.

The cup in your hand tilts; light winks off the rim. A simple motion, exact as the turn of a compass. I notice it because it is the only movement in the room.

The herald’s voice breaks the quiet from somewhere below—announcing the first council of reconstruction. I straighten the folds of my robe, the gesture automatic.

“Your attendants will bring you the documents,” I say at last, tone level, eyes still on the horizon. “The council convenes within the hour.”

A pause. I hear the faint shift of silk as you nod. That is answer enough.

I leave by the archway, footsteps soft against the marble. Behind me the hall remains quiet except for the sea, unjudging and endless.

I let its rhythm set my own. It is easier than thought, easier than memory, easier than feeling.

For now, silence will serve us both.