"Your Majesty," Serapion began, bowing just low enough to appear respectful, "I must say, I am truly grateful that you granted my request for an audience. I hadn't expected it, especially after hearing that the prince was still… unconscious."
His tone was smooth—too smooth—and when he straightened, his lips curved into what might have been called a smile if it reached his eyes. It didn't.
Heinz regarded him silently from across the long table, one arm resting against the carved armrest of his chair.
The golden sigil of the crown glinted faintly on his sleeve, but his expression was unreadable, gaze sharp and unwavering.
He didn't care for Serapion's false courtesy or his feigned warmth. The man's every word reeked of diplomacy, of someone used to speaking for gods but serving only his own pride.
Still, Heinz wasn't here for pleasantries.
He was here for answers.
