Chapter 47

The chamber smelled of dust and old parchment and of wax dripping from half-burnt candles and the lingering traces of his father's cologne—spiced cedar and aged musk. It should have faded by now.

The windows had been bolted shut for days, the heavy drapes drawn so tightly that not a sliver of moonlight or sunlight could pierce through. The air was thick, stale, carrying only the ghost of a scent that refused to leave.

Kaden lay where he had fallen hours before, his body curled loosely against the floor, his tunic twisted and loose, his hair damp and smelly from sweat. His breaths were shallow, barely there, but he had no strength to change it. Time had long since lost meaning. Whether it was dawn or dusk, he no longer cared.

Everything bore no meaning to him. He just wanted and needed to be alone. To feel the silence and embrace it.

There had been knocks. Soft at first. Polite. A servant's knock.