The journey back to the palace had been a tense and silent one.
Jayran walked with his family through the corridors, past the servants and guards who lowered their gazes as they walked by, and he had barely said a single word in hours. There was nothing to say. The burial was done, the final rites had been observed, and whatever the day had demanded of him he had given it. Now there was only the hollow, directionless feeling that came after, the kind that left a person not quite knowing what to do with their hands.
He should have gone to his chambers. He should have changed out of the dark clothes he had worn since morning, clothes that still carried the faint smell of burnt incense. He should have eaten something, or slept, or done any of the sensible things a person did at the end of a long and difficult day. Instead, without consciously deciding to, he found himself moving toward the throne room.
