The air in the private study was stagnant, thick with the scent of aged parchment, cold stone, and the sharp tang of fresh ink. Outside the narrow windows, the wind from the North continued to howl against the palace walls, but within this sanctum, the only sound was the rhythmic scratching of a quill against thick, high-quality vellum. Constantine sat behind a desk of carved ebony, his posture rigid and predatory. The flickering light from a single silver candelabra cast long, dancing shadows across his face, emphasizing the hollows of his cheeks and the intensity of his dark eyes. He was no longer the prince who merely reacted to the world; he was the architect drafting its new, brutal geometry.
Elena stood across from him, her hands folded neatly in front of her. She watched the moveme
