Night pressed against the windows like a witness unwilling to leave.
Alessandro stood alone in his study, hands braced against the edge of the desk, head bowed — not in weakness, but in memory.
Some promises did not fade.
They sharpened.
And tonight, with Elara beneath his roof and the watchers shifting beyond the forest, the past returned with relentless clarity.
He closed his eyes.
And the room dissolved into smoke, lamplight, and the slow rattle of a dying man's breath.
Florence — Winter, Years Earlier
The chamber smelled faintly of antiseptic and old paper — diplomacy reduced to its final ledger.
GiovanniRomano lay against white sheets that could not conceal the truth: the great negotiator had reached the one treaty he could not revise.
Yet his eyes remained sharp.
Calculating.
Alive.
Alessandro stood at the bedside, still as carved stone.
"You are late," Giovanni rasped.
"You sent for me at midnight."
