After some time, Velira exits the war room with an exhausted face. The grand halls feel colder now, quieter, as if the walls themselves are still absorbing the weight of the meeting.
She walks with a heavy gait, her boots echoing faintly against the polished stone. The palace corridors stretch before her—twisting, silent, lit by flickering crystal sconces. When she reaches her quarters, she doesn't knock. She just pushes the door open.
Inside, Gresren and Solven are already waiting.
Solven is leaning against the window ledge, arms crossed, looking out over the city rooftops. Gresren is seated on one of the low couches, boots off, his feet propped on a small table, a half-eaten peach in his hand.
Velira stops in the doorway and lets her head fall back with a tired groan. "You two better not be eating my rations."
Solven glances over his shoulder. "Only the fruit. Gresren was going for your wine, but I stopped him."
