Lord Rhaegal sat there for what felt like an eternity, unmoving, the untouched meal before him slowly growing cold. Whether it was a loss of appetite or simply a deepening distaste for everything around him, he couldn't quite tell.
The silence pressed in like a second skin.
At last, he reached for the jug and lifted it with a slow, deliberate motion. Tilting it back, he drained its contents without ceremony, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.
Without a word, without another glance at the meal, he walked out of the room.
Lord Rhaegal let his feet carry him, silent and uncertain, until he found himself on the floor where Malin's chambers lay. He stood there, still as stone, caught between intention and hesitation. The corridor stretched ahead, quiet and dim, and he lingered—one hand brushing the wall as though it might anchor him to a decision he hadn't made.
