"Finally free of duty?" Oathran greeted with a rumble of warm, amused voice in the quiet of Eastiel's private chambers.
He was lounging in a deep chair, still wrapped in a plush bathrobe, his damp hair slicked back. A glass of rich, dark date wine glinted in his hand as he took a slow sip.
Eastiel stood across the room, having just shed the outermost layers of his court regalia. He was still in his official white desert robe, the heavy, embroidered fabric quite a contrast against his sun-bronzed skin and golden mane.
The garment was pristine but showed the faint signs of a long day. A slight crease across the shoulders from sitting on the throne, a dusting of fine sand along the hem from crossing the courtyard.
He looked every inch the weary king. But the aura of authority slowly melting away into the more familiar tension of the man beneath.
His sharp eyes scanned the room.
"Where's she?" he asked, cutting straight to the point.
