Elizabeth's office was plunged into a calm twilight, broken only by the sound of the wind whipping against the high windows. The smell of burning parchment and fresh ink hung in the air. Ester stood at her desk, her hands clasped behind her, her face serious. Elizabeth, on the other hand, slumped in her chair, her gaze lost in the papers spread out before her.
"Caelam and Garrick…" she murmured, without looking up. "I already knew they wouldn't last long. But I didn't think they'd fall so soon."
Her tone wasn't cold—it was exhausted. There was a strange weight to her words, as if each syllable dragged memories she'd rather let die.
Ester leaned back slightly, watching. "You expected them to die," she said bluntly, "but within the duchy, not on the way."
