Valerian Stormborne stood by the tall window of his study, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the capital below. The city of Valkoron stretched endlessly beneath the morning sky—its towers, spires, and banners unmoving in the still air. From here, everything appeared orderly.
Deceptively so.
Behind him, his brother Soren lounged against the edge of the long oak table, one boot crossed casually over the other, his posture relaxed in a way that would have earned disapproval anywhere else but in the king's private study.
Across from him stood Tiberin Dorrick, the King's Hand, his back straight, his expression grave as always, a scroll tucked neatly beneath his arm.
They had been discussing matters of state for over an hour—border movements, trade disputes in the eastern provinces, and whispers of unrest among the lesser houses.
"And then there is the matter of the North sire," Tiberin said, breaking the rhythm of their discussion.
