The heavy oak doors to Caelen's chambers seemed to loom larger than usual as Soren stood before them. He had come alone, dismissing the imperial guard at the end of the corridor. He didn't want the spectacle of a state visit; he wanted the truth of a private one.
He knocked, the sound of his knuckles against the wood echoing with a hollow finality.
"Come in," Caelen's voice drifted from within. It was stronger than it had been days ago, but there was a tremor of weariness beneath the surface.
Soren entered. The room was flooded with the pale, silver light of a Nevareth morning. Caelen was sitting in a high-backed chair near the window, a blanket draped over his legs. He looked fragile, but the feverish, sickly sheen of the dark magic had vanished, leaving his face clean and haunted.
