Nathaniel walked through the long marble corridor toward his father's chambers, his boots echoing softly against the polished floors. The palace felt different now, much quieter than he was used to, as though the very walls had begun to understand that something irreversible had begun.
He paused at the grand doors and knocked lightly, but got no response. By the third knock, Nathan exhaled slowly, his patience thinning, before pushing the doors open himself.
The room greeted him with the stale scent of wine and grief. King Bradley sat slumped at a small table near the window, a half-empty jug beside him. In one hand, he held a delicate portrait of Juliet Aldos and in the other, a trembling cup of wine.
He looked… hollow, not just tired. As though something essential had been carved out of him and left behind nothing but a shell dressed in royal robes.
"Father," Nathaniel said, his voice softer than one might expect.
