You walk alone, the chill of the floor seeping through the soles of your shoes. To your left, a row of tall, arched windows reveals a gray dawn bleeding into the sky over the royal gardens. To your right, the portraits. King Alaric the Stern. Queen Isolde the Fair. Your father, Henrik, forever young in his gilded frame. Their painted eyes follow your progress.

You turn. Rhys Larsen stands three paces back, his posture a study in disciplined stillness. The dark suit, the precise haircut, the unreadable blue eyes fixed on you—all of it is as familiar as the palace itself.