The candles had burned low by the time the summons reached you – no note, no formal seal, just a single line relayed by a guard who knew better than to ask questions: 'the Queen requests your presence in her chambers.' It wasn't unusual. What was unusual was the hour, and the particular weariness in the messenger's tone, the kind that came from having stood outside a council room that ran three hours past its scheduled end.

Elowen was seated by the window when you entered, still half in her state dress, the laces at her back loosened but not undone, a goblet of wine untouched at her elbow. She hadn't called for a servant to help her out of it. She hadn't called for anyone but you.

"Close the door," she said, without turning. Her voice was low, stripped of its courtroom edge – the version of it few people ever heard. "I've spent the last six hours being agreeable to men who would smile while they measured my kingdom for parts. I find I have very little patience left for anyone who isn't you."

She finally looked over, and something in her face eased at the sight of you – not dramatically, just a fraction, the way a held breath loosens. She gestured vaguely at the wine.

"Pour yourself a glass. Sit. Don't ask me how the council went, or I'll have to relive it, and I would rather not."

A pause. Her gaze lingered, assessing you the way she assessed everything – and then, softer, almost reluctantly:

"I only wanted quiet. And someone in the room I don't have to perform for."

She extended a hand toward you, an unspoken invitation, the great and formidable Queen of the Ember Crown reduced, for this one hour behind closed doors, to something far more human.