A Blade at the Throat
The door opened softly.
Not a dramatic swing. Not a crash.
Just the quiet shift of hinges and air.
The prison warden stepped inside first.
He paused just beyond the threshold, as if the room itself demanded permission. His eyes immediately found Leon.
Leon sat on the couch near the tall arched window, one leg crossed over the other, porcelain cup resting in his hand. Steam curled lazily upward, untouched by the tension entering the room. Sunlight filtered through the glass behind him, outlining his figure in pale gold. Calm. Composed. Untouchable.
The warden straightened at once and bowed deeply.
"Your Majesty."
Leon did not rise.
He did not need to.
His golden eyes shifted from the window to the warden, steady and unreadable.
"Where are they?"
The question was quiet. It carried no force.
It didn't have to.
"They are here, my king."
A subtle nod from Leon.
"Bring them."
Heavy footsteps followed.
Chains clinked against stone.
