Kaelen always hated the sound of the fortress at night. The silence was too sharp, the kind that pressed into his skull, making every thought louder, every regret harder to swallow.

He sat in his quarters, hunched over a desk scattered with half-drained goblets and old maps. The fire in the hearth burned low, the light flickering against his face, sharp cheekbones, sunken eyes, a jaw clenched too tight. The faint scar across his neck caught the glow each time he turned his head.

It was ...