The tenth day arrived sooner than Roland had anticipated.
The guards arrived earlier than usual, knocking on the inn's door while the sky was still gray and the cold morning air carried the sharp scent of factory smoke. Roland had been standing by the window since dawn. His shirt had been washed clean by the innkeeper the previous night, and the wound on his left shoulder was now completely scabbed over. His hair was neatly combed—not out of habit, but by deliberate choice.
Ten days were enough to restore his strength. But that wasn't what brought him a sense of calm this morning.
He had planned every move since the night Rianor returned from the red archives. Every word he would utter. Every pause he would allow. Every possible reaction from the Emperor, and exactly how he would counter each one.
