The morning air in the palace gardens was sharp, carrying the scent of wet stone and roses. Servants moved like quiet ghosts along the gravel paths, their arms full of fresh linens and trays of steaming tea.
Kaerth had been there since dawn, sitting on a low marble bench near the eastern fountain. His hands were folded in his lap, but his gaze was far away, fixed somewhere beyond the rising sun.
He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Ignareth's expression from the night before—cool, assessing, and unreadable. And Noah's voice still lingered in his ears, sharp with warning.
"Little prince."
The voice cut through the quiet, low and deliberate. Kaerth turned his head.
Ignareth was walking toward him, his cloak trailing over the dew-damp grass. In the morning light, his black hair looked darker still, framing a face carved from calm control.
"You're up early," Kaerth said. His voice sounded steadier than he felt.
