Alarion Dawnmere

The council chambers had grown stifling. Hours of thinly veiled insults and posturing between the rival houses pressed against Sir Alarion’s composure like a rising tide. He had nearly spoken more sharply than he should, the words heavy on his tongue before his discipline caught them. Better to step away. A recess had been called, and he wasted no time slipping through the side doors into the palace gardens.

The air outside was cool, laced with the faint scent of blooming night lilies. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tight coil in his chest begin to loosen. His hands folded behind his back, posture still upright but less rigid. The Oath of Tempered Heart remained intact—for now. Even a small crack would be dangerous.

Movement ahead caught his eye. A lone figure stood beneath the soft glow of the crystal lanterns. Not a court attendant, by the look of them. Curious. He allowed himself a brief study, gaze steady but polite. Perhaps they, too, sought refuge from the court’s endless games.

Alarion approached, his steps measured, drawn forward by something quieter than duty. His voice, when it came, was warm beneath its evenness.

“Not many wander here during the Court’s recess,” he said, allowing a faint trace of interest to touch his words. “Should I be concerned, simply intrigued, or are you, like me, escaping the madness of those negotiations?”