Levan returned to his sleeping chamber once the sun had climbed high enough to pale the curtains. The air still held the faint chill of dawn, but his head felt clearer. He had washed away what remained of the night. Everything, from the haze, the self-reproach, the strange heaviness that had refused to leave his chest...
And then he tried to put himself back in order. No matter how much he was still reeling from the death of that woman and his guilt towards his wife, there were still a dozen things waiting for him outside these walls. Lots of letters; lots of reports. A kingdom that did not rest.
He pushed the door open, expecting silence to finally settle in his chambers. He had imagined that the small, domestic order of the morning would be a balm. He imagined too that she would have taken his cue, to retreat to her room to mend and sleep off the sorrow, and that the palace would resume its steady, indifferent spin.
But she was still there.
