The dawn did not break; it bled a bruised, grey light over the ramparts, cold enough to turn breath into ghosts. News of the slaughter in the North—they called it a victory—had arrived on the heels of the wind, yet the air within the courtyard remained stagnant, choked by a silence that felt less like peace and more like a held breath.
Leon stood a few paces away, the silhouette of a man carved from shadow. He turned, a thin, jagged smile cutting across his face.
"So, you've crawled out at last?"
Olivia tightened her grip on her shawl, her spine a line of steel against the biting wind. She did not look at him; to look at him was to acknowledge the rot beneath the crown.
"I am here for my husband," she said, her voice brittle as frozen earth. "What business is it of yours?"
