Page 64 of The Crown's Awakening
Cofaris steps further into the room. "Why would Teorin be involved, my lord?"
"I do not know," Sevrin replies, "only that I am now learning she had been slipping away to the forest to meet with someone before this, and there is no one more likely to linger there, to take what is not his, than Teorin Rathmor."
The name holds between them.
Sevrin turns from the wall and crosses the room, his hand closing around a small bronze weight on the table and sending it across the space. It strikes the far wall and drops, the sound contained and quickly gone.
"I am not convinced," he continues, his voice steadier now, "but if she is not alive then she has likely become undead, and that changes nothing."
He faces Cofaris.
"I still need her here. At my side."
Cofaris lowers his head. "Do you wish to ready the ships for Morra?—"
"There is no time." Sevrin turns back to the wall, to the version of her that holds his attention longer than it should. "I have already prepared for this. We will use the ones kept in the Deep Levels."
"Yes, my lord."
He looks at her a moment longer.
“Open them,” he says. Then he leaves.
The painted room returns to its silence.
Below it, the Deep Levels do not stay quiet.
CHAPTER 21
The Petitions
The first petitioner is easy. Or, he is meant to be. He speaks at length about grain and routes, his voice careful in the way of men who believe precision will protect them from consequence. I listen, following what I can, losing the rest somewhere between his numbers and his justifications.
The silence stretches longer than he intends.
Petunis steps in without invitation, her voice cutting through his explanation and reducing it to its bones until the decision sits plainly between them. She delivers it without hesitation, without apology, and by the time she finishes he bows as though the outcome had always been obvious.
I watch him leave and feel the gap where my answer should have been.
“You will not always have me to do that for you,” she says.
“I know.”
“Then learn.” Her voice is laced with irritation, though underneath it a hint of what might be affection seems toexist. “Or at least learn to pretend properly. Sit straight. They must never see you falter, you must always give the illusion of confidence. Indecision is for the common. You are a queen.”
The Herald steps in again. "Qyanis of the Rock Region," he announces.
The next man approaches. He looks much the same as the first, composed and properly dressed, his posture correct, his tone measured as he begins to speak. I listen more carefully this time, tracking not only his words but the way he holds himself, the pauses he does not expect anyone to notice, the subtle tightening beneath his composure that has nothing to do with his request.
Teorin’s voice returns to me without invitation.Do not chase with your eyes. Use what you are.
I let my focus loosen instead of tighten, allowing my awareness to move outward rather than forcing it through what I can see. The room expands around me in a way that has nothing to do with distance. Breath. Movement. Presence. And beneath it, something that does not belong.
It finds me before I understand it. A pressure, low and coiled, gathering beneath the surface of his calm. Not hesitation. Not uncertainty. Something harder. Anger held too tightly. Bitterness shaped into purpose. It sits beneath his words like a second voice, one that does not bother to hide itself if you are not looking directly at it.
It comes together all at once.
He moves.
