Dawn—if one could call the faint violet light that seeped through the high crystal slits "dawn"—found the great hall empty of spectacle. The braziers had burned down to dull red embers. The velvet cushions from yesterday's confessions still lay scattered like forgotten promises. The air carried only the faintest trace of oil, ink, and skin.
Aiden was already there when the first women arrived.
He sat cross-legged on the cold marble floor in the very center of the hall—no chair, no dais, no throne. Barefoot. Shirtless. A single black rose from the lower gardens rested across his open palm. He turned the stem slowly between thumb and forefinger, watching the petals catch the dying light.
They came in ones and twos, hesitant at first, then steadier. No one spoke until spoken to. Husbands trailed behind like shadows, kneeling at the perimeter without being told. Their chains made no sound; the silver threads had gone quiet overnight, as though the Spire itself were listening.
