Elian scrubbed the river mud off his face in a horse trough behind the stables. He changed into a spare, slightly ill-fitting uniform he stole from the laundry line.
He didn't have the Wolf Pin. He didn't have the Prince's favor. He was just a valet with a hangover and a vendetta.
"Forty-five LP," Elian muttered, checking his system balance. "I can't afford a miracle. I can barely afford a sandwich."
He met Ambrose by the kitchen entrance. The White Lotus was holding a tray of pastries, looking like he wanted to poison them.
"Update," Ambrose hissed. "The wedding is set for tomorrow at sunset. The High Priest—my father, unfortunately—has agreed to fast-track the ceremony because the 'Love is so pure it cannot wait'."
"Pure," Elian scoffed. "It's synthetic. It's the emotional equivalent of polyester."
