The imperial palace of Nevareth, usually a bastion of frozen stability, felt like a hollow shell in the days following Vetra's arrest. The stone walls, thick with ancient enchantments, seemed to absorb the warmth of any room, leaving behind only the biting chill of isolation.
Between the Emperor's study and the Empress's private wing, a chasm had opened, one not made of distance, but of silence and a thousand things left unsaid.
They were like ships passing in a fog-thick night. Soren was buried beneath a landslide of legalities and testimonies, his desk a graveyard of vellum and ink.
He moved through the corridors like a phantom, intentionally timing his returns to his chambers for the hours when he knew Eris would be deep in the recovery of sleep.
When the exhaustion became too much to fight, he simply collapsed on the sofa in his study, the weight of his crown never truly leaving his brow.
