That afternoon was already strange before it truly began.
Tyron had been dressing slowly, a nervous, fumbling procession of buttons and hems, when something yanked at the edge of his collar. He nearly doubled over, breath stolen by the sudden motion, and then froze when he looked up.
The tenth prince' red eyes were on him... narrow, calm, and unreadable. His highness' hand curled into the fabric and pulled him out of the little guest room the saint princess had lent them.
"We're leaving now," the prince said simply.
Tyron blinked. He noticed, almost absentmindedly, that the prince had slung the princess' scary knight's bow across his own shoulder, the weapon stark against his dark cloak, and an arrow quivered at his hip.
The implication hit him the moment his gaze tracked to the strap. "N-now? Isn't this too early?" he stammered, looking out the low window where the sun hung, already beginning to sink behind the far sky.
