[Thalryn Empire—Veyrhold Mansion—Afternoon]
Duke Aren Veyrhold sat alone in his study, the fire having long burned low beside him.
Dark circles hollowed the skin beneath his eyes, shadows carved deep by sleepless nights. Papers lay spread across his desk—petitions, ledgers, treaties—but none of them held his attention. His gaze passed over the words without seeing them, fingers lingering uselessly on the edge of parchment.
Outside the tall window, snow drifted down in a slow, unending veil, muffling the world beyond the glass.
Behind him, the butler Marcen stood in silence—rigid, nervous.
At last, he spoke.
"My lord," said Marcen, his voice careful and deferential, "perhaps you should retire for the evening. You have not left this room in two days."
Aren did not look at him.
"I wish I could, Marcen," he muttered. His voice was hoarse, scraped thin by worry and too many unspoken thoughts. "Truly, I do."
