The morning after their encounter on the balcony, the castle felt colder than the winter air outside. Vaelor had retreated into his duties, surrounding himself with generals and old men who spoke of grain taxes and border skirmishes.
Serin stood at her usual post, her armor polished to a mirror sheen. Her ribs still ached occasionally from the wound that almost took her life, but the ache in her chest whenever Vaelor looked through her instead of at her was becoming harder to ignore.
He was a King. He was meant to be unreachable.
"The Northern pass is blocked," General Kael announced, pointing at the map. "If the rebels strike now, we are blind."
Vaelor's eyes flickered to Serin for a fraction of a second. "Serin. You fought with the mountain tribes before you were sent to kill me. Is there another path?"
The room went silent. A King asking an assassin for military advice was unheard of.
Serin stepped forward, her voice steady. "There is a goat path through the Iron Crags. Narrow. Dangerous. But a small unit could pass."
"Then you will lead them," Vaelor said, his voice devoid of emotion.
He was sending her away. Not because he didn't trust her—but because he trusted his own restraint even less.