Athax slept uneasily.
The corridors beyond their chambers were dark, torches dimmed to embers, guards posted farther away than usual. The city held its breath, stone listening to stone, wind threading through narrow windows like a warning whispered too late.
Inside, the room was warm.
Not from fire—there was none—but from closeness. From the low table between them littered with maps and sealed orders. From the weight of everything unspoken.
Killan stood near the window, arms folded, staring out at a city he was already preparing to defend. Aya sat at the edge of the bed, boots unlaced, hair loose down her back, watching him in silence.
"I still don't agree with it," Killan said at last.
His voice wasn't raised. That was worse.
Aya inclined her head slightly. "I know."
"You shouldn't be the one going," he continued. "Ceadel is enemy territory. We all know it. Sending you—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "It is a risk I would not choose."
