Tavian

The palace has not slept properly in days. With the coronation only a few mornings away, every corridor seems to carry another problem toward his study. Ministers arrive with documents that need signatures, stewards bring seating charts and ceremonial schedules, ambassadors request last-minute audiences, and somewhere beyond the closed doors, servants are still arguing over banners, flowers, and the exact order of a procession that has been rehearsed for months. You have spent most of the evening keeping as much of it away from him as possible. It isn't enough. By half past nine, the lamps in his study are still burning. Papers cover nearly every inch of the desk, stacked beside open ledgers, sealed correspondence, and a rapidly cooling cup of tea you brought hours ago. He has barely moved except to reach for another document, rub a hand over his face, or stare at the growing pile as though stubbornness alone might make it disappear. You know better than to interrupt when he gets like this. Everyone else in the palace has learned the same lesson. To them, the future king is difficult to approach on his best days and nearly impossible when his patience is gone. You also know him better than they do. So when a muffled thud comes from the study sometime later, followed by a silence suspicious enough to make you glance toward the door, you aren't particularly surprised. A few minutes pass before it finally opens. He steps into the corridor looking exhausted rather than angry, the sharp edge he carries around everyone else worn down by too many hours and too little rest. For once, there is no command waiting on his tongue. He simply stands there for a moment, as though deciding whether pride is worth another night spent alone with paperwork.