The banquet was over, but the palace didn't sleep. Not really. Its marble corridors still whispered with footsteps, its alcoves still sheltered murmured conversations, and its walls—thick as they were—still seemed to hum with secrets.
Sebastian moved like he belonged here, even though he wasn't born to it. He had learned the palace's breathing rhythms, the soft pulse of its nights, the moments when watchful eyes turned elsewhere.
He used one of those moments now.
James was waiting for him in the small council chamber, the kind of place meant for discreet discussions but far enough from the Emperor's private rooms to be considered neutral ground.
The room smelled faintly of polished oak and the dying embers in the fireplace. James sat at the table, one hand resting on a folded parchment, the other absently tapping the edge of his goblet.
"You're late," James said without looking up.
"You're impatient," Sebastian replied, shutting the door behind him.
