Sirius stood in front of the tall window of his main office, hands clasped behind his back, watching the palace move the way a machine moved when it had been trained for centuries to grieve on schedule.
Below, in the inner courtyard, preparations for Caelan's funeral ceremony were happening in real time. Black drapery went up. Sconces were replaced. The route was being measured twice, then measured again, because tradition loved precision more than it loved peace. Courtiers drifted through corridors in coordinated silence, already practicing the faces they would wear when the cameras turned.
As Trevor had said, whatever Arion's pheromones had done, Caelan was declared dead of natural causes.
Eighty-nine.
Not too old for an alpha like him - alphas like Caelan tended to survive out of spite alone - but old enough that the paperwork didn't argue. Old enough that the state could nod solemnly and pretend this was fate and not look closer.
