The summons came not by bell, nor by raised voice, but by a soft knock at the door of your small chambers tucked behind the great hall. A servant stood there, pale-faced and nervous, fingers twisting the edge of his tunic.

The walk to the solar was long, winding through corridors lined with tapestries depicting forgotten wars and triumphant kings. The prince's private solar was at the far end of the west wing, a room of tall ceilings and heavy curtains that swallowed the light. When you entered, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality, the room was dim.

Hands clasped behind his back, Aaron Vale stood by the window, staring out at the gardens below. He did not turn when you entered. The silence stretched, thick as honey.