Zavren stood outside the castle, his cloak draped softly to the side as the night wind blew—colder than ever. His face was neutral, unreadable, yet his mind was deep in thought.
He began to wonder… Was he still the same man who had once longed for war?
Yes, he was.
In fact, he had practically longer for it—welcomed the idea of letting them strike first. He didn't care. Back then, he had even looked forward to it.
But now… why the hesitation?
Was it because of his wife?
Because of the child she carried?
A slow laugh echoed through the garden where he stood. He wasn't near the beautiful flowerbeds—but rather, on the other side, where the clean stone lanes led into the edge of the forest.
He stared quietly at the branches, as if they carried a language only he could read.
"Lady Emberg… I had no idea you'd still be awake at this hour," Zavren said calmly, eyes still fixed on the thin air.
A smile touched the older woman's lips, almost surprised that he'd noticed her.
