The execution
I wake up the next morning to a deathly quiet.
Gone is the ample banter that sings down our corridor, and the tip-tapping off butlers feet as they run from room to room calling service. Gone is the wind, and the bird song that rushes outside the castle walls, replaced only by the long thrum of a lone, stagnant silence.
Something is wrong.
Ithuriel sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall, his glossy hair tinted yellow with an ardent worry. His fingers tap together in a prayer like motion, eyes unfocused, grand wings spread behind him, stone still and unmoving like one of the many statues that lines this palace. Never before have I seen such an expression so pained.
I make to get up, but before I can even bring myself level to him Ithuriel catches the movement, and pushes me forcefully back down. I frown, and try again. Once more, he pushes my back down, harder this time, and this time I snarl in response.