The storm had not yet broken—but it lingered in the air. Night had settled over Virelia, but sleep had not.
Valerian remained at his desk long after the last bell rang, the chamber illuminated by storm-glass lamps that hummed softly with contained lightning. The sound was familiar, almost comforting—like a beast breathing behind glass. The city beyond his tall windows glimmered uneasily: too many torches burning at odd hours, too many moving shadows threading through streets that should have been quiet by now, too much noise carried on the wind.
Unrest had a sound.
He heard it even from here.
He tried to focus on the parchments before him—petitions stamped with seals, reports layered with cautious wording—but the noise threaded through his concentration, tugging insistently at his senses. Finally, he exhaled, slow and controlled, pushed back his chair, and rose.
