Chapter 4: The Exile’s Gambit.
The palace corridors went silent.
Lan walked alone, his boots clacking against marble floors polished far more than they had any reason to. Behind him, the throne room still lingered with the aftermath of his sentencing—nobles whispering, Duke Veyl gloating, his father’s cold gaze burning into his back.
It didn’t matter, especially not now.
He had thirty days.
Thirty days to prepare for exile in a territory that had killed better men than he was.
A smile curved his lips, slowly.
He reached his chambers.
Lan slammed the door shut behind him, the sound final as a tomb sealing. His chambers, was usually one of quiet humiliation, but now it felt like a war room.
He strode to the window, throwing open the curtains. Below, the capital stretched—glittering rise of spires and smoke, its streets teeming with lives that would never know his name unless he made them know it.
"Ranevia," he murmured.
A death sentence? Perhaps.
No, it most certainly was.