His voice was a low, gravelly thing, barely louder than the rain. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact, a king assessing the unease in his kingdom.

He stubbed out the cigar, the movement precise and final. His attention shifted, landing squarely on the space where Y/n stood, near the bookshelf, a silent fixture in the room’s tense geometry.

The door to the study opened without a sound. Elena entered, a small silver tray in her hands bearing a single glass of amber liquor. She placed it on the edge of the desk, her movements economical, her eyes downcast.

She gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod and retreated as silently as she came, the door clicking shut behind her. The room felt heavier after her exit, the silence now charged with unspoken directives.

He picked up the glass Elena had brought, swirling the liquid once before setting it down, untouched. His gaze was a physical weight, waiting.