The courtyard lay bathed in a pallid glow when Levan arrived. The air was heavy with the tang of iron and burnt incense from the remnants of the sealing. Wind stirred through the open arches, carrying faint traces of salt from the northern sea and scattering dust across the marble in restless spirals.
Two figures stood near the railing. The first was Captain Harken, his armour dulled from long duty, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his sword as though the stillness itself might strike. The other stood beside him, tall and unmoving was a man dressed in ceremonial black, his tunic pinned with the crest of the royal bloodline.
Neven.
