Damian lingered by the window for a moment longer, his hands loose behind his back.
The storm outside clawed against the glass, relentless.
It mirrored the one rising inside him — not anger, not yet, but something colder.
Inevitable.
He turned away, his black and gold coat sweeping behind him like a shadow, and crossed the room with decisive steps.
"Clear the rest of my evening," he ordered without looking back.
Astana bowed low. "As you command, sire."
Damian didn't wait for further acknowledgment.
The heavy double doors of the imperial office swung open, guards snapping to attention as he passed.
He barely noticed them.
His mind was already elsewhere, in the palace's private wing, crossing the threshold into the only space where the storm inside him calmed down.
—
The corridors blurred past Damian, with dark stone, velvet runners, and the distant hum of ether lights, until he reached the familiar wing guarded by the Shadows.
