Arion came back late enough that the private wing had gone quiet, but not asleep.
Nothing in the imperial residence ever truly slept. Security still moved through the corridors in soft-soled precision, cameras tracked access points, staff messages blinked across internal channels, and the low hum of climate control and hidden servers filled the silence beneath all that polished marble and glass.
But the public face of the palace had shut down for the night.
The lights had dimmed to warm strips along the floor. The wide windows showed Palatine glittering below, all towers, traffic, and ceremonial banners already installed along the main avenues for the wedding next week.
Arion walked into their suite with his jacket open, his tie loosened, and the expression of a man who had spent the last several hours listening to committees discuss Andrea and Draxil as if they were deciding where to send a defective diplomatic appliance.
He had not killed anyone.
