The corridor was still, save for the faint hiss of snow brushing against the tall windows. The frost outside had thickened, the glass fogging faintly with each passing gust. Lysandra's reflection shimmered beside Trafalgar's — two shades of the same bloodline, framed by gold lamplight and winter silence.
"I've been… busy," she said at last, her tone even but faintly tired. "Father keeps sending us all on assignments. Everyone's fighting for his approval now that war's on the horizon."
Trafalgar gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Let me guess — proving who's the most useful weapon?"
"Exactly." Her green eyes flicked toward him. "Helgar's been breaking skulls in the north, Rivena's stirring chaos wherever she steps, Sylvar's charming half the merchants in the continent, and Darion—" she exhaled softly, "—he's trying too hard to look noble doing Father's dirty work."
Trafalgar's lips twitched faintly. "Sounds like everyone's desperate for that pat on the head."
