The chamber doors slammed shut behind Aeron with a finality that echoed like the fall of the executioner's lever. He stood for a moment on the threshold, chest still tight from the public square, where the crowd's murmurs had followed him like smoke. The golden embroidery on his sleeve caught the firelight from the hearth, but the warmth did nothing to ease the chill that had settled deep in his bones.
Inside, the room felt smaller than it had that morning. Two heavy oak chairs had been dragged close to the long table, and there sat Theron, broad shoulders hunched, fingers drumming a silent, restless rhythm on the polished wood. Kael stood near the window, arms crossed, his face drawn into lines of pure tension. A half-empty decanter of dark wine stood between them, its contents untouched since the last pour.
