The corridors of the Aiseryn palace were unusually quiet that evening, the kind of quiet that made the walls feel like they were listening. Servants had begun retiring to their quarters, and the flickering torchlight painted long shadows across the floors.
Neris walked through them with a steady stride, but his thoughts were anything but steady. The snowstorm he had summoned earlier still raging beyond the frosted windows.
Servants bowed as he passed, but none dared speak. The cold around him felt different tonight — sharper, restless, echoing the turmoil inside him.
For hours, the same question had circled his mind like a vulture.
Why is Azarion so desperate for my bloodline? What does he know that I don't?
He turned the last corner and stopped before a familiar carved door—his mother's chambers. A pair of guards bowed and opened it without a word. He exhaled once before entering.
