Dragged by his scruff into the dancing circle, the King of the South found himself unwilling thrown back into the scuffle he wished to get out.
When he had pleaded that his feet were dead to the world, he had not been jesting. A quarter-league of winter flagstones on naked soles would turn any man's heels to wood, and while he gladly endured the torment for the sake of his wife's radiant grin, he held no such charity for the rest of the realm.
Lysandra, having dragged him to slaughter, abandoned him the instant her duty was done and after a few minutes of danging. She skipped away to roust her own husband away from the company she had left him in, leaving her sovereign marooned in a sea of silk, perfume, and predatory fathers.
