**DISCLAIMER (MATURE CONTENT)**
Heavy footsteps echoed through the dimly lit marble corridor. Beige walked with a slight hitch in his stride, his cloak torn and fluttering with each step. Blood had begun to dry beneath the dark fabric at his shoulder, but he hid the injury well, pressing one hand subtly over the tear to mask it. His face remained stoic, unreadable, despite the pain biting into him with every movement. Two guards stationed at the archway offered stiff nods as he passed. He didn't return the gesture—his eyes burned with urgency, locked on a singular purpose.
In Lenora's private chamber, the fire cracked and hissed, casting molten shadows across the stone walls. Lenora lounged in a high-backed chair near the hearth, half-armored and sipping blood wine from a black-stemmed goblet. Her hair was a wild halo of dark waves, unbound from its usual coils. She looked every inch a queen in waiting.
The door creaked open.
Without turning, she said, "You're late."
