An hour later, I was sitting inside the most ridiculous thing I had ever seen in this world.
The Agro Hotel carriage. Which I had renamed, immediately and correctly, the Limo.
Because it was one. It had the enclosed body. The cushioned seats. The absurd smoothness of movement thanks to enchanted suspension runes beneath the frame. The windows were slightly tinted, muting the sunlight into something soft and expensive.
Prince Ford sat across from me, quiet.
Watching. Not me. The window. His silver eyes reflected the passing scenery, thoughtful, distant. His posture was perfect, as always—back straight, hands resting loosely on his lap, composed in that effortless way only ancient predators could achieve.
Outside, his knights rode on horseback behind us. And they were suffering. Not physically. Socially. Women lined parts of the street as we passed through the noble district. Human women. Vampire women. Even merchants paused to stare.
