The tension from the Grand Evening Banquet had finally dissipated.
In the Eastern wing, the quiet was almost physical. Outside the carved wooden doors of the inner bedchamber, Harun stood vigilantly in the dimly lit corridor. Dressed in dark leather armor, his hand rested on the pommel of his sword. His eyes were sharp, scanning the silent hallway, though his chest still felt tight from the events of the banquet. He had watched Zaliyah step out, carrying his bare, scarred neck and walked into a court full of demons who wanted his head hanging on the execution tower.
Harun knew the strategy—he was well aware Zaliyah was laying a psychological trap—but every second they remained in this gilded cage felt like walking on the edge of a blade.
Suddenly, a noise at the far end of the corridor seemed to pull him out of his head.
Harun's posture stiffened instantly, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his sword hilt. "Who is it?"
