Your fingers tighten on the railing as you turn slowly to face your advisor. The moonlight carves deep shadows into his withered face, making his sunken eyes appear even more hollow. "Restless?" you repeat, your voice as smooth as the night air but edged with something sharper. "Tell me, Valen—do they forget who holds the crown now?"

Valen doesn’t flinch, but his knuckles whiten where they’re clasped behind his back. "They remember," he says carefully. "But they also remember your father’s... decisiveness. They fear hesitation in these uncertain times."

A low laugh escapes you, dark and humorless. You step closer, the hem of your cloak brushing the stone floor. "And what do you fear, old friend?" you murmur, watching the way his throat bobs as he swallows. The scent of his unease is faint but unmistakable—aged blood and something acrid, like parchment left too long in the damp.

The raven lets out a croak, drawing your attention. With a flick of your wrist, you pluck the message from its leg. The parchment is stiff, the wax seal bearing the mark of the Blood Court—a thorned rose dripping crimson. You don’t open it. Not yet. "Tell the council I’ll give them their answer," you say at last, your gaze drifting back to the city below. "But it will be on my terms. At midnight. Not dawn."

Valen hesitates, then bows. "As you command, my prince." He turns to leave, but you catch the faintest tremor in his step. The raven watches him go before taking flight, its wings stirring the cold air. The message burns in your palm, heavy with unread words.