Zellheim's distinctive morning mist had yet to disperse completely, and a layer of white frost like frosted glass coated the terrace of the Silent Retreat.
Veylin had just poured himself a cup of hot tea when steady footsteps sounded behind him. Without turning, he took another cup, filled it with tea, and pushed it across the table.
"You're here early, Your Highness."
Prince Wilander emerged from the shadows by the floor-to-ceiling windows. Morning dew covered his signature brown coat; he had clearly spent some time walking through the mist. The normally stern, reserved prince wore a particularly remarkable expression-a mixture of bewilderment, shock, and the peculiar look of someone struggling not to laugh.
"Early?" The prince tossed a rolled stack of parchment onto the table with a smack, a trace of helpless amusement in his voice.
"Thanks to you, Count Veylin, the poor bastard responsible for the city's defenses spent two whole hours kneeling outside my study. He didn't dare disturb the Imperial Governor, but he was afraid the Nobles' Council would hold him accountable. All he could do was come begging me, looking utterly miserable, to lend him some private troops to bolster his courage. He said the entire lower city had been overrun by 'a hundred roaming ghosts' last night."
Veylin lifted his teacup and gently blew on the foam, asking a question whose answer he already knew. "Oh? It seems the Royal Capital really does need better security."
"Stop playing dumb." Wilander pulled out a chair and sat down, tapping the stack of reports. His lips finally curled into a smile he could no longer suppress. "Take a look at these reports. To dodge responsibility, the fellow made these accounts more colorful than a bard's stories-'the angel statue in Copper Hammer Lane knocked on a widow's door