The Court of Shadows and Dawn
The grand hall was hushed beneath the soft glow of torchlight, their flames bending faintly in the draft that whispered through the high arches. The air smelled of stone and polish, of an old kingdom reawakening under a new ruler's quiet fire.
Leon sat upon his throne — not as a conqueror, but as a man who had already seen the weight of crowns. His golden eyes caught the flicker of light from above, calm but unreadable, his expression carved somewhere between command and restraint. The great sigil of Vel shimmered faintly behind him, its edges traced by dawn that hadn't yet reached the horizon.
A soft echo carried through the court doors — boots meeting stone.
"Call Ronan," Leon said.
His voice was low, but it carried through the hall like steel cutting air.
