Cassian opened his eyes to purple pre-dawn light. It was the only time of day the palace felt truly empty—the hour between the last guard rotation and the first stirring of the kitchen.
He didn't move at first. He lay still, staring at the carvings on the canopy of his bed, listening to the silence. It was a rare thing. Usually, his mind was a chaotic, filled with council grievances and the low hum of his own restless resonance. But this morning, the hum was a soft, steady thrum.
Cassian sat up, his movements quiet. He looked toward the hearth. The fire had burned out.
There, slumped in the wingback chair, was Elias.
He hadn't made it to his own quarters. He was still dressed in his formal high-collared coat, though the top button had been undone. His head was tilted back against the velvet, his green hair spilling over his forehead. A stack of half-finished reports
sat on the small table beside him, a pen still gripped loosely in his right hand.
