The morning light poured into Winter's Crown, its golden hue spilling over the stone walls and warming the chill left behind by the night. Inside the palace, the atmosphere was far less serene. Beneath its polished facade, whispers of unrest slithered through the halls like vipers—each rumor, each shadowed conversation, carrying weight Damien couldn't ignore.
In the war room, Damien stood at the head of the table, his steel-gray eyes sweeping over the map splayed out before him. Villages, trade routes, regions marked with faint red ink—all the kingdom's scars laid bare. Amara sat cross-legged on a chair beside him, idly twirling a dagger between her fingers, her sharp blue eyes narrowed as she watched him.
"You're thinking again," Amara said, her voice breaking the silence.
Damien didn't look up. "When aren't I?"
