As the sun dipped behind the horizon, Scarlette and I sat in quiet companionship, watching the sky bleed into hues of rose and amber.
Warm whisky rested in our hands—served in delicate gold cups etched with intricate vinework.
"That should take the edge off," Scarlette murmured, her eyes still fixed on the fading light.
"What a stressful day."
"At least we were productive," I replied with a shrug.
She smiled—faint, tired, but real.
Then came the sound of hurried footsteps—leather slapping against polished floors, echoing like a warning drumbeat.
A guard burst into the study, panting, two others trailing behind. His face was flushed; his breaths came in short, panicked gasps.
"Your Majesties," he bowed deeply—
…then stuttered. The words wouldn't come.
"Drop the formalities. Speak," I ordered, cutting through the tension that thickened the air. There was no time for curtseys or bows.
