Xavien’s bed.
She sat up slowly, drawing the blanket tight around her shoulders. The room was empty but not abandoned: the faint scrape of wood reached her from the corner, and when she turned, she saw him.
Xavien stood with his back to her, folding the hidden bed into its panel. Golden hair fell unbound down his back, his movements sharp even in exhaustion.
“Not how I expected my first day as king,” he muttered, half to himself.
Her throat tightened.
“I am sorry, Xavien,” she whispered. “For your father.”
He turned, eyes shadowed. For once the smooth veneer of royalty was gone. A bitter smile ghosted his mouth.
“I cannot mourn what I never had.”
Then—
as though her words had snapped some hidden wire—
he moved.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
He paced between table and wardrobe in harsh lines, murmuring under his breath as though the world would shatter if he stopped.
“First the proclamation—my father is dead, the throne passes to me. Too brief. Too cold. Should I name his works? He had none. Dask, what do I write?”
His hands quivered as he reached for parchment, abandoned it, tugged at his sleeves, returned to the table again.
“More surgeons to Sevrak, quartering for soldiers, the guards at Vykenra still unpaid—no, no, it must be the proclamation first. Always the proclamation.”
“Xavien.”
He did not look at her.
His jaw worked as he rearranged the quills for the third time.
“The words must be ready before the Senate gathers. If I falter, if I leave space, Senator Idrel will—”
“Xavien.”
Sharper.
When he faced her, his composure had shattered. His gaze burned, unfocused, frantic—a serpent striking its own tail.
She rose before she could think, coverlet trailing.
Crossing the chamber, she caught his wrists in her hands, stilling the frenzy.
His breath hitched.
His eyes dropped to her fingers on his skin, then lifted to her with dangerous intensity, as though her touch tethered him.
“One thing,” she said, quiet but steady. “At a time.”
His breath came fast, words still tumbling.
