MINGAN'S POV
The hour was getting late, but I heard Koda before he even knocked. Heavy boots, sharp stride. A man with purpose and nothing left to lose. I called for him to enter before he finished raising his fist to the door.
He stepped inside, eyes tired, hair tangled from the wind, still wearing that old riding cloak like armor. He looked taller somehow, stripped of all the trappings of royalty. No crown, no sash, just the stubborn set to his jaw and a coldness behind his eyes that I hadn't seen since he was a child who refused to cry.
I stayed by the hearth, stirring the dying coals with a poker. The smell of old ash filled the room, sharp and bitter. I let him stand there in the doorway a moment, studying my collection of portraits and relics. He never really looked at them when he was younger and in the castle. Now his gaze lingered on each frame, eyes searching for something only he understood.
