Elias woke up and did not immediately reach for his boots. Usually, his feet hit the cold floor at the exact same second every morning. Today, he waited. He stared at the ceiling for one minute, then two.
He dressed with lack of care. He left his silver brooch pinned at a slight angle. It sat crooked against his charcoal tunic, a tiny, silver against the grey color. He didn't smooth out the wrinkles in his sleeves. He wanted to look like a boy who had tossed and turned all night, who was starting to lose his grip.
As he walked toward the Iron Gate, he felt the internal friction. Every part of his training told him to fix the brooch. Every instinct told him to straighten his back and walk. But he forced his shoulders to slump just a fraction. He let his gaze drift to the floor.
He arrived at the Iron Gate two minutes early. In the world of the Palace, being early was just as much of a mistake as being late. It broke the rhythm.
