Breakfast in Athax had regained its rhythm.
It no longer resembled the hurried, standing meals of wartime, where commanders leaned over maps with bread forgotten in their hands and reports delivered between mouthfuls. Now, servants moved at an unhurried pace, placing dishes with quiet precision, refilling cups before they were emptied, the soft clink of porcelain a steady, civilized counterpoint to the memory of clashing steel.
In turn, Killan had taken to joining Aya for meals in her chambers.
It was a quiet shift at first, noticed only by the servants who adjusted their routines without comment and by the guards who no longer blinked in surprise when the King appeared at the Queen's door at dawn or dusk. What had once been occasional, almost formal visits had settled into something steadier - predictable enough that a second place was now always set at her table before he arrived.
