The doors to the great hall opened with a soft creak.
Mirean Moon entered with the grace of someone long accustomed to being watched. The morning light fell through the tall windows, scattering across the marble floor in shards of gold and white.
At the center of the hall, behind a wide wooden table cluttered with papers and inkpots, Luciel was writing. His posture was relaxed, his focus absolute. The steady scrape of charcoal against parchment filled the silence.
Mirean stopped a few paces away. "Has Elara already left?" she asked quietly.
Luciel looked up, the faintest smile touching his lips. "She left a while ago," he said, setting down the charcoal pen.
For a heartbeat, Mirean's composure faltered. The sorrow that flickered across her face was brief, almost imperceptible. She approached the table and folded her hands before her, lowering her gaze. "Are you preparing for the council?"
