The next morning, a soft knock roused me from the quiet hush of my chambers.
When I opened the door, I found Lyall already standing there, composed in posture but visibly tense beneath the calm surface. His eyes flickered with suppressed guilt, and his jaw was locked tightly as if he'd been grinding his thoughts all night.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair, fingers tangling briefly in the long strands before stepping aside to let him in.
Without a word, he moved to prepare the bath for me, his motions sharp, precise—too precise. The tension in his frame was unmistakable, every movement riddled with a silent self-reproach.
"An assassin managed to sneak in last night," I said plainly.
He froze.
The sound of water filling the tub became the only noise in the room for a moment.
"He was disguised as one of the guards," I continued, watching his back as his fingers clenched around the copper faucet. "There might be more."
