The incense in the Grand Throne Room was particularly disgusting today, a mix of sandalwood and something sickly sweet that stuck to the back of Yerel's throat. He stood where he always stood, a half-step behind and to the right of the King, the perfect shadow of a devoted son. His posture was a masterclass in calculated grace, hands folded loosely before him, a faint, humble smile playing on his lips. To the sea of nobles gathered below the dais, he was the picture of princely stability.
But beneath that silk doublet, Yerel's heart was drumming a restless rhythm. It had been days. Days of going over his coded messages, of sifting through mundane reports for a specific, coded ink-blot from Philia.
He'd been expecting a very very different kind of news. A "tragic complication" in the North. News that the Duke had at last collapsed from his worsening condition, caught in a wave of beasts that should have been impossible to overcome. Or something close to that.
But none.
