The chamber they entered was austere and private, designed for the Elven King's personal quarters away from the throne room's theatrics.
Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated the western wall, and through them, the sun was descending toward the horizon in shades of amber and crimson.
The light painted everything in warm copper tones, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch across the stone floor.
Maelor moved immediately to the window, his ancient frame silhouetted against the dying light. His hands clasped behind his back.
He was shouldering a burden that far exceeded his physical capacity. The strain in his shoulders was palpable, not the acute tension of immediate confrontation, but the profound, persistent tension of someone who has carried a weight for an extended period without respite.
