The palace didn't look different after a man died.
That was the part Lucien hated most.
The corridors were still bright. The windows still poured sunlight across white stone. Servants still moved in neat patterns, carrying trays and linens like nothing had shifted. Guards still stood at attention, faces blank, hands steady on polished spear shafts.
Everything continued.
As if Master Rellan hadn't been laid on a cold office floor under a sheet.
As if the word *accident* could swallow a life whole and leave no trace behind.
Lucien walked with two guards at his back and one ahead of him, just like Alexander demanded. The escort was quiet, efficient, and suffocating.
He kept his chin lifted anyway.
He told himself it was temporary. He told himself he understood.
But every time a servant's eyes flickered toward the guards and then away from him, a tightness formed in his chest.
It felt like being labeled.
Fragile. Target. Liability.
He forced the thought away.
