The morning after the gallery, I awoke not to sunlight but to noise—measured, deliberate noise. Boots in the corridor. Two sets. Maybe three.
Mina entered without knocking. Her face was set.
"A summons from the Privy Chamber," she said, holding out a scroll with the royal seal, this time stamped not in red but in dark green wax—the color of internal matters, secrets not spoken aloud.
"They’re moving faster than I expected," I murmured.
Mina handed me my robe. "They're hoping you’ll trip. Or crack."
I didn’t answer.
***
An hour later, I stood before the doors of the Privy Chamber—a space so rarely used most nobles forgot it existed. The guards opened the doors in silence.
Inside was a room of shadows and tapestries, high-backed chairs and half-truths. The King was not present.
But
