Seraphine's POV
In the days that followed, the antechamber became the center of my world. Zoey and I arrived before dawn. The brazier glowed weakly, the pitchers were cold, and the dark paneling swallowed every sound. At the threshold Cassian set the morning rhythm:
“Water in two half-jugs. Ash under the fire. Open the door when the bell rings. No questions in the study. Don’t cross the armory threshold.”
No wasted words. Tasks connected cleanly: finish one, the next appeared.
Darius entered each morning almost without notice. No loud steps, no display—just presence shaped by purpose. He hung his coat the same way, set his knife the same way, and when he wanted coffee, he didn’t ask. He simply looked at the black cup. By the third day, it was already placed beside him before he sat.
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