GASP!
Arzhen woke with a violent start, his body lurching upright as if yanked from drowning. Cold sweat drenched his skin, plastering his hair to his forehead, soaking through the fabric of his clothes. His chest heaved. His heart slammed against his ribs like a trapped animal.
He looked outside the window.
Today was Arkai Dawnoro's banquet.
He had sent his men, his most trusted, his most discreet, to attend in his stead. To put on their best ears and their most innocent faces and listen. To report back everything that uncle of his said, every announcement, every shift in the political wind.
They hadn't returned yet.
It was still too early. He knew that, logically. His men would come when they could.
But knowing did not calm the shaking in his hands.
After the incident with the alive Dragon Lord, Arzhen had not been the same. He moved through like a man walking underwater. Consciousness came and went in unpredictable waves.
