Alderon sat alone behind his sprawling desk, surrounded by a mountain of unread border reports, tax ledgers, and official seals. The curtains were drawn tight against the late-night chill, sealing the room off from the rest of the silent, sleeping palace.
Outside, the night was long past its middle hours, but the monarch made no movement to rise. He simply stared down at his own withered, ink-stained hands, watching the faint tremor in his fingers.
A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door.
Alderon didn't look up. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and Halrond stepped quietly into the study. The old imperial aide carried a silver tray with a freshly poured cup of warm chamomile tea, his dark robes rustling softly against the polished floor. He took one look at the king's pale face and sunken eyes, setting the tray down near the edge of the desk with a quiet, practiced motion.
