The walk back to the palace was a blur of shifting shadows and the distant, rhythmic pulse of the orchestra. Up ahead, Prince Herschel moved with a predatory elegance, his head tilted toward Liera as they spoke in hushed, urgent tones. They looked like a matched set of Imperial porcelain, perfectly suited for the corridors of power.
Verona, however, felt like she was walking toward her own execution, or perhaps, her true birth. She leaned closer to Elric, her voice a ghost of a whisper that barely cleared the rustle of her silver skirts.
"What do you think he wants?" she asked, her eyes darting toward the Prince's retreating back. "A King doesn't pull a Duke and a Lady from a gala just to discuss the weather. Is he... is he angry?"
