The guards surrounding them shifted uncomfortably, their iron armor clinking in the stillness.
Roland's breath hitched. He knew the Duke had grown distant, ruthless, and strangely obsessed since the rebuilding began, but to hear Karl accuse their master of such horrific brutality sent a ripple of cold dread through the ranks.
Then Eiravyne's pale, bruised hand lifted from Karl's chest.
Her fingers trembled like dying leaves, moving through the biting air with agonizing slowness.
Her cold fingertips grazed the rough, dark leather of his shoulder guard, leaving a faint, desperate streak of blood on the iron buckle.
"Ro... land..."
Roland's breath hitched. He stared down at her small, trembling hand. In all his years of service, he had never dared to touch the ladies of the house.. especially her.
He had bowed to her from the shadows of stone archways, held doors for her silk gowns, and stood vigil at her doors, always at a respectful, reverent distance.
