The hour was a hollow, echoing thing. Before the first bruise of dawn could stain the horizon, the Frozen Court was a tomb of silent stone.
Saoren moved through the imperial chambers with the practiced, soundless precision of a man who had spent half his life in war camps.
He was already dressed in his heavy traveling furs, the white wool and leather creaking faintly as he adjusted his gauntlets.
He was trying to leave before she opened her eyes.
He knew the geometry of her face too well. He knew that if he had to look at her amber eyes and see the specific, jagged weight of a farewell, his resolve would soften.
He was not certain he could walk out of the door if he stayed long enough to witness the moment her composure cracked.
In the dim light, the room smelled of cedar and the fading scent of the hearth.
