Sylvia was pacing like a caged animal inside Dean's wing in the palace of Alamina.
Not because she was lost. Sylvia didn't get lost. She prowled. She claimed corridors with sheer attitude, boots quiet against polished floor, and hair pinned back like she had better things to do than exist politely.
She had come to see the dog.
She wanted to greet Boreas and maybe, maybe, to steal him.
Boreas was, in her professional opinion, the only creature in this palace with the correct priorities.
She turned the corner with purpose, already rehearsing the bribe in her mind—some dried meat she brough on her way to the palace, a scratch behind the ears, the kind of tone that said, "You could have a better life with me, you know—"
—and nearly walked straight into the Crown Prince.
Arion appeared like a problem manifesting.
