Cassian didn't remember falling asleep.
One moment, his thoughts had been racing—tangled with memories, shame, and quiet rage and the next, he was waking up to soft light spilling through sheer curtains. The silk sheets around him felt suffocating, as if trying to remind him where he was.
He was not in Morthagar, not anywhere close to home.
There was a gentle knock at the door before it opened, and the same young demon servant from yesterday entered quietly, balancing a tray of breakfast and folded clothes in his arms.
"Good morning, my grace," he said with a soft bow. His voice was quiet and practiced. "I've brought food and a fresh set of robes."
Cassian sat up slowly, rubbing the sleep from his face. He didn't speak. He didn't thank him. He didn't even glance at the tray.
He simply stared out the window, unmoving.
