The words former Queen cracked through the chamber like distant thunder.
Caelen's head snapped toward him at once.
Every trace of softness vanished. His body went taut, a bowstring drawn too far.
Soren, by contrast, did not move. Not even a blink. He merely inclined his head, the faintest gesture of permission.
The guard swallowed, the sound loud in the silence. His eyes flicked nervously between the two men, clearly aware he was standing at the center of a tempest neither crown could contain.
"Speak," Soren commanded softly.
The guard's voice wavered. "Her Majesty says: If you plan to take her to Nevareth, you must leave tonight. She will be ready."
A simple message. Bare. Precise. But oh, how it detonated.
It landed in the room like a match dropped in oil.
Caelen went still, frighteningly still, as though time itself had paused to watch him come undone. Then it began, the slow spiral, wave after wave.
First came panic.
