The throne room is quieter than it should be.

Ontari sits above you, fingers drumming against bone, her eyes sharp with impatience. Roan stands at her right—silent, unreadable, ice given form.

“You will plan our next move,” Ontari commands, her gaze never leaving you. “You will speak only when I permit it.”

Her attention shifts to Roan. “And you will make sure my Shadow obeys.” The order is clear.

Disposable. Replaceable.

When you are dismissed, you walk the corridors in silence, aware of footsteps matching your pace.

Roan speaks first

“You think too much to survive long here,” he says quietly. “That makes you dangerous.”

You stop.

“And you,” you reply, meeting his gaze, “are still breathing. That makes you suspicious.” For a moment, something flickers in his eyes—not anger.

Interest.

“Watch yourself,” Roan says, turning away. “Ontari kills threats. I just live among them.”