Akidna's boots clicked softly against the polished flagstones of the garrison's upper wing, each step a measured echo in the hush of late afternoon.
The air here carried the faint tang of polished steel and lingering incense from the morning's hurried ablutions—remnants of a court that had teetered on the edge of ruin and now pretended at normalcy.
Her fingers twisted the hem of her cloak, a habit born of impatience, as she approached the heavy oak door to Aiden's temporary quarters. A room befitting a "guest of honor," though the irony twisted her lips into a wry half-smile.
She paused, hand raised, and knocked—three sharp raps that cut through the quiet like accusations. No answer at first, only the muffled thump of something rhythmic from within, like distant war drums muffled by velvet. The door was locked, of course. Aiden's precautions were as much habit as necessity.
