As Vera and Sera walked through the sculpted rose bushes, the atmosphere felt lighter than it had in weeks. The scent of blooming moon-roses and damp earth provided a rare sanctuary from the obsidian-cold halls of the palace. But that peace was short-lived, shattered by a low, melodic whistle that seemed to slide through the air like a silver coin on a glass tabletop.
The sound didn't come from a bird. It was too practiced, too deliberate.
Strolling toward them from a shaded alcove was a man who looked like he had been carved out of pure sunlight and pure arrogance. He wore a doublet of heavy cream silk, intricately embroidered with gold thread that caught every stray beam of the afternoon sun. His blonde hair was perfectly coiffed, not a single strand out of place despite the garden breeze, and a smirk played across his lips—a look that suggested he didn't just walk through the palace, but that he owned the very oxygen everyone else was breathing.
