Lucian reached the Valemont gates later than he'd planned. Cold morning air twisted in his lungs, thin and sharp, and Quenya hovered close to his collar as if studying the tension in his shoulders. She didn't comment. She didn't need to. Even she felt the weight sitting under his ribs.
The iron gates creaked open without a word from the guards. They recognized the reader's crest he carried, though their glances said they wished they didn't. He crossed the courtyard alone. Gravel shifted under his boots, each sound too loud in the stillness. He tried to settle the illusion of Lucian more firmly around himself. It held, but the real Vencian underneath kept a steady pulse in his jaw.
The butler waited in the entry hall. The man bowed with perfect form, then turned. No greeting. No expression.
