The corridor to Ethan's private suite smelled faintly of burnt incense, a leftover trace from Lamair's passing. The scent mingled oddly with the cleaner, warmer smells that usually drifted from the emperor's quarters: brewed tea, polished wood, and the low ozone tang of powered glass. Lamair's boots tapped on the polished floor, a steady, purposeful rhythm that cut through the softer noises of the palace at rest.
He paused at the door and knocked once, because even kings had to observe small courtesies. The door whooshed open on soft servos.
Inside, the room was exactly what one might expect for a sovereign who had rediscovered leisure: wide windows that framed the city like a living map, a cluster of lush plants in the corner, and a low modular couch facing a holo-projection pod. The lighting was warm.
