A tall guard cornered Kyan near the kitchen entrance, slipped a small folded note into his palm, and walked away without a word.
Kyan opened it slowly.
"If he's drunk to stupor, drop him in Room 105. Top floor. —R"
He blinked, then rolled his eyes with a scoff. Of course, he thought. She's really pushing it now.
With the note crushed in his fist, Kyan walked back into the hall—his face blank, his steps steady.
Nico was seated alone at the far end of the long table, looking like a king among men. Back straight, jaw clenched, a brooding storm resting on his fine face.
And yet, all Kyan could think about was the men who'd died. His people. Executed. Like animals.
He walked to Nico in silence, placed the drink in front of him without saying a word.
Nico's eyes slowly flicked up.
Kyan's voice was tight, barely above a whisper.
"Your drink , sir," he said, turning to leave.
