The dawn broke pale and gray over the Dorne family estate, as if the sky itself mourned something that hadn't yet been spoken aloud. A chill wind blew in from the northern hills, brushing over the narrow, misty roads of the marshland and creeping through the worn bricks and stone gates of the estate.
We had been here for three days.
And in those three days, I had seen more silent glances, more half-said words, and more grim-faced retainers than I cared to count.
Felix, unsurprisingly, had said little since our arrival.
He guided us through the halls of his ancestral home like a ghost returning to a haunted house—familiar, yet ill at ease. Whenever he looked at the crests carved into the walls or the old portraits staring down from their frames, a flicker of something would pass through his eyes. Not nostalgia. Something heavier.
I didn't pry. Not yet.
