The silence in the king's study carried weight.
Severin stood by the window, his shadow long and thin across the map of the conquered territories. He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Cassian could see clear enough.
The strange movements in the lands he had already conquered—shadowy reports of regrouping clans in the frozen wastes—were the final push.
Cassian sat at his desk, staring at the wax seal of a northern dispatch.
He was calm.
There was no heat in his blood, he had processed the reality of the last month.
Elias was stable. The restoration was complete.
The court saw the distance between them, and instead of a fracture, Cassian saw an opportunity. If Elias no longer needed him emotionally—if the Anchor had become a self-sustaining pillar—then Cassian was free to move the pieces on the board without the burden of a breaking heart.
This was clean. This was necessary.
