The halls of the Ice Palace in Nevareth were not like the sun-drenched corridors of Solmire. Here, the light didn't dance; it fractured.
It broke against the sapphire-veined marble and the pillars of eternal frost, casting long, sharp shadows that seemed to follow a man like silent accusations.
Caelen walked with the heavy, rhythmic step of a king who felt like a trespasser. He had arrived late... perpetually late, it seemed... to a wedding that felt like a funeral for the life he had once known.
Every breath he drew in this place tasted of mountain air and ancient magic, a crispness that should have been refreshing but instead felt like needles in his lungs.
As he moved toward the guest chambers, the servants and minor nobles of Nevareth bowed. It was the shallow, practiced respect given to a visiting monarch, yet beneath the surface of their courtesy, Caelen caught the ripples of something else.
