The heavy scent of incense and bitter medicinal herbs hung thick in the air. He coughed lightly, his nose wrinkling as the smoke stung his throat.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, the room came into focus.
The Duke lay on the large bed, his face gaunt but stern, while the house physician moved carefully around him, adjusting bandages and checking pulses with hushed precision.
The Duchess sat nearby on a small carved stool, her back straight, hands folded tightly in her lap.
Her eyes, though weary, held a glimmer of strength.
Beside her, Renold — the Duke's old steward — stood quietly, calmly recounting the state of the duchy: reports from merchants, unrest at the borders, letters from the capital.
Aerik paused at the threshold, the warmth of his practiced smile flickering under the weight of the room's solemnity.
The Duchess looked up first. Her gaze narrowed.
"Why are you here, Aerik?"
He stepped forward slowly, careful not to appear hurried.
