The fire had burned low in Aeron's study.
He sat at his desk, a single candle flickering beside his hand. Before him lay a sheet of parchment, blank except for a single line at the top: *To my father, the late King Aldric.*
The ink was dry. Aeron had been staring at those words for an hour.
Outside, the palace slept. Seren was in their chambers, wrapped in Lysa's quilt, her breathing soft and even. Kael was beside her, one arm thrown across his face. Theron had curled at the foot of the bed like a cat.
But Aeron could not sleep.
He picked up the quill.
*To my father, the late King Aldric.*
*You have been dead for three years. I have not mourned you. I have not visited your grave. I have not spoken your name in council or in private. You were not a father to me. You were a commander. A taskmaster. A king who ruled through fear because love was beyond you.*
