"Enter," King Zeriel said, stern and clipped.
Hairan dropped his head into a deep bow the moment he stepped into his father's private study. The room smelled faintly of ink and beeswax, warmth lingering from the hearth.
The king's gaze, however, was fixed on the open parchment spread across his heavy, ornate desk, more focused on the word scrawled across its page than on the son standing before him.
"Speak, Hairan. I do not have all day to waste." His father's voice carried the same cool impatience he always wore; even now he did not spare his son a glance.
Hairan clenched his jaw, feeling the old, familiar sting of being dismissed. Weeks had passed since they had last spoken, despite sharing the same palace roof, and now that they faced one another, his father didn't even acknowledge him.
The king treated him like an inconvenience he was eager to be done with.
