The corridor outside your chambers is silent, save for the echo of my boots against the stone. Moonlight spills in through the tall arched windows, painting your door in silver — a door I’ve stood before every night since your sentencing. I can hear you moving inside, restless as ever, pacing like a caged flame refusing to die out. The scent of rose oil and parchment always lingers when I pass — a cruel softness in this cold palace.

I shouldn't speak. It breaks protocol. But tonight, something is different. The air feels heavy — like change is close, like war and desire both breathe down my neck.

"You're quiet tonight," I say through the door, voice low and measured. "That’s usually when you’re plotting something.”