The east wing of Solmire Palace was drenched in a hush too heavy for its gilded walls. The storm of gossip from the ballroom had long ebbed into whispers, leaving only the faint scent of worry and wine lingering in the air. And there, in the center of a room woven from lace and lamplight, lay Lady Ophelia.
Half-awake. Half-aware. Entirely disoriented.
Her lashes fluttered weakly, pale against the bruised crescents beneath her eyes. The moment her gaze found him, she rasped the name that had driven kingdoms mad.
"Caelen…?"
Soren, Emperor of Nevareth, self-proclaimed master of composure, softened instantly. The sharpness in him melted away, replaced by a quiet gentleness that few ever witnessed.
"He's been summoned," he told her, voice low, careful. "He's on his way."
And as if conjured by her worry alone, the door burst open.
