The palace had returned to its rhythm.
Servants moved along polished corridors with quiet efficiency, nobles resumed their carefully measured routines, and the echoes of the court's recent upheaval—though not forgotten—had settled into something distant, something that no longer demanded constant attention.
But not everything had returned to normal.
Some things lingered.
Some things… remained unfinished.
Silvain walked slowly.
It was not obvious at first glance—not to those who passed him with lowered gazes or respectful distance—but to anyone who truly looked, the difference was there. It lived in the slight hesitation between his steps, in the way his posture, though still upright and composed, carried a subtle stiffness that had not been present before.
The poison had left him.
The physicians had said as much.
The wound had closed.
The fever had broken.
But the body remembered.
And healing, true healing, did not obey declarations.
