While the Third Prince's wing was a tempest of protective rage and silver-laced silk, the rest of Wyfkeep was a hive of cold, calculating preparation. The royal hunt was never about the stag; it was about the hierarchy.
Spencer Velthorne stood like a statue of granite as his valets cinched the heavy leather bracers over his forearms. He was a man of immense, quiet gravity, far removed from Benjamin's drunken bluster or Alaric's volatile fire. To his left, his wife Beatrice was inspecting a row of specialized arrows, her face a mask of aristocratic boredom.
"Benjamin is a fool," Spencer stated, his voice like grinding stones. "To provoke Alaric in the morning light... he is lucky Embrez has faster reflexes than he has wits."
