It had been a day since the falcon died on the railing, since the war room echoed not with command, but with confession. The mist had still not lifted. But It had settled. Quietly. Deliberately. And in that silence, Valaris did not burn — it forgot. Orders blurred. Names slipped. The throne remained upright, but no longer obeyed. And deep beneath its foundations, in archives sealed by fear and fire, Chancellor Breven read the first words that proved it was already too late.
The lower archives were colder than they should have been.
Not from stone, or draft, or winter's reach — but from absence. The kind of chill that came when the past stopped resting and began watching.
Chancellor Breven stood beneath the sigil-lamps, one hand trembling as he unfurled the last scroll. The flame in the oil basin beside him guttered sideways — not from wind, but from breath withheld. He did not look up. He did not pray.
He read.
