(Romulus POV)
For the first time since Zafira's execution, I entered Almera's chambers without secrecy.
No hidden panel.
No midnight hour.
No borrowed shadows.
The guards announced me properly, voices echoing down the corridor with a formality that was unmistakable. I felt the shift ripple outward the moment my name was spoken—servants pausing, footsteps slowing, the palace itself recalibrating.
I wanted that.
Not as spectacle, but as statement.
When the doors opened, the warmth inside met me first—lamplight, silk, the faint scent of herbs that still clung to her recovery. Almera stood near the window, dressed in pale blue, the color catching the light like water under sun. She turned at the sound of my steps, surprise flickering briefly across her face before settling into something softer.
"You're early," she said.
"On the contrary, I'm quite on time," I replied with a smile.
Her lips curved. "That's not what the schedule of the court says in the rotation today."
