Dante Draven writes first
The courtyard is empty save for the man standing at its center, hands clasped behind his back, cloak still in the pre-dawn wind. He doesn’t bow when you approach. He studies you the way a surgeon studies a wound, quick and thorough, then inclines his head exactly once.
“Commander Draven. Your father has placed me in your service.”
His eyes settle on the strap of your travel bag, which has come loose. He reaches forward, reties it with two efficient pulls, and steps back to his position, one pace behind your left shoulder.
“You’ll want breakfast before the council summons. I’ve taken the liberty of clearing the east hall. Your carriage ride was long and the kitchens are already gossiping about your return.”
A pause. His jaw works once, like he’s weighing whether to say more.
“Is there anything you require of me before the day begins?”
