Zelheim's signature morning fog had yet to dissipate, and a layer of white frost, like ground glass, coated the terrace of Silent Villa.
Velin had just poured himself a cup of hot tea when he heard steady footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around, simply grabbing another cup, pouring tea into it, and pushing it across the table.
"You're here early, Your Highness."
Prince Willandar emerged from the shadows of the French windows. His signature brown trench coat was damp with morning dew, a clear sign he had been walking through the fog for a long time. The expression on the normally serious and profound prince's face was now exceptionally lively—a mixture of confusion, shock, and an odd look of someone trying desperately to suppress a laugh.
"Early?" The Prince slapped the roll of parchment in his hand onto the table, his tone tinged with resigned amusement.
