In the left wing of the palace, the air felt strangely alive. It did not breathe — it brooded. The silence there was not the stillness of peace but of something waiting, listening. The tapestries along the corridor barely stirred, yet the chill beneath them carried whispers of long-dead kings and promises that had rotted into curses.
Turik waited alone in one of the abandoned council chambers — a room the court no longer entered, though its ghosts had never left. The remnants of old power still clung to the air, bitter as iron and incense. The candles had long since drowned in their own wax; the scent of burnt tallow mingled with damp stone.
He had stripped away his ceremonial armor hours ago, leaving only a travel-worn cloak, its coarse folds dark with shadow. The fire in the brazier had gone out. Only a single lamp trembled beside a half-empty goblet.
