The rain fell softly against the stone windows of the East Wing, casting trembling shadows on the polished floors of the palace. Night had settled in like a secret — thick, heavy, and unwilling to let go.
In the northern hallway, where the royal banners fluttered faintly from the drafts of the castle walls, Kaerth was walking beside Ignareth, the sound of their boots echoing in the silence.
Neither spoke.
But both could feel it — the shift.
The political games had grown colder. Deadlier. With every whisper behind golden doors and every look cast across the banquet table, alliances were forming and breaking like glass underfoot.
"Do you ever get tired of pretending you don't care?" Kaerth asked suddenly, voice soft but firm.
Ignareth didn't look at him. "Do you?"
They stopped at the end of the corridor, moonlight spilling through the archway ahead into the garden.
