Something that had set grief aside—not because it was finished with grief, but because grief would have to wait. There was work to do first.
His face was cold.
Not the warmth-underneath-cold that people who knew him had learned to read, the gentleness that showed through even when he was being formal.
Just... cold.
Empty.
Like looking into winter ice and seeing nothing alive beneath it.
The servants moved out of his way without being asked.
---
They heard it from the upper floors.
From the kitchens where the evening staff were preparing dinner they knew no one would eat.
From the garden courtyard where the night shift guards were gathering for their briefing.
The screaming from the dungeons carried through stone and corridor and closed door, and everyone who heard it went very still and did not ask questions.
Because some sounds communicated their own context clearly enough.
---
The man in the chair had been there for six hours.
He was not in good condition.
