The door creaked open with a hesitant breath from someone who already knew they were guilty.
Lilliana stepped into the chamber with the grace of someone who had practiced fear. Her steps were soft, careful not to echo in the oppressive silence, and her gaze flickered once, only once, toward the tall figure standing before the fire.
Silas did not turn. The flames behind him curled like restrained rage, casting a long and terrifying silhouette against the far wall. The room smelled of smoke, cold stone, and something else: judgment. He had not changed his clothes or washed himself, and his mind was racing with questions.
"Your Grace," Lilliana said, her voice tighter than intended. Her hands were clasped in front of her, as if this would stop them from trembling.
He didn't speak. Not at first. He let her drown in the silence.
"I came as you requested," she added, as though it hadn't already been an order.
