The heavy oak doors of Prince Liam's private residence swung open silently on well-oiled hinges. Carlos stepped inside, his boots sinking into the plush, crimson carpet that muffled his footsteps. The air was warm, scented with expensive oils and the faint, sweet smell of roasted fruits. It was a world away from the cold, sterile atmosphere of the military camp he had just left.
A soft, melodious sound tickled his ears as he entered. It was the music of a harp, played with such delicate precision that it seemed to float in the air like perfume.
Carlos glanced to his left. In a dimly lit alcove, bathed in the glow of a single, golden lamp, sat the player. She was a woman of breathtaking beauty, her hair a cascade of spun gold that fell over her shoulders. She wore a gown of pale blue silk that shimmered with every movement of her arm. Her fingers danced over the strings of the harp, her expression one of serene, focused concentration.
