It was late in Jerusalem, the palace quiet but for the scrape of a pen. Queen Baldwynne sat at her desk, lamp-light catching on parchment as she wrote with careful, practiced strokes—orders, revisions, names weighed and reconsidered. The city beyond her window still breathed, but here the world narrowed to ink and will. When the door opened behind her, she did not look up, her hand never pausing.

“Say it plainly. I am listening, I will not judge you for the contents of the message.”