Lan was back in the guest chambers of the palace, standing at the dark wooden sink, cold water dripping from his face and onto the marble floor beneath.
He exhaled.
Again, he splashed the water onto his skin—then leaned in, letting it trail down past his chin, into his shirt. His fingers slid back his soaked bangs as he stared at the mirror.
Grey eyes stared back through the dripping strands.
Unblinking. Tired. Cold.
He didn't stay long at the banquet after the trial. Not when Corvin was reduced to ash.
He had no more to prove. No words to offer.
The warriors and nobles who came hoping to humiliate the forgotten prince now sat with hushed mouths and humbled egos. Their designated weapon had shattered in front of them.
The princess?
He wasn't sure what she felt.
Anger? Satisfaction? Disappointment?
He couldn't tell. Her face had remained unreadable. But her envoy's words returned to him—about the Mad Scholar's story, the tale of two sheep... the one that ruled wolves.
