It wasn't until late in the afternoon that Damon arrived at the rogue land. His journey had not gone as planned; on the contrary, he had gotten more than he bargained for. Tiredly, he strolled into his apartment. The guards bowed at the sight of him; he barely acknowledged them.
As he pushed the giant door open, the sweet aroma of freshly baked pastries welcomed him. He wasn't a fan, nor was Sunny. This promptly carried his legs towards the direction of the kitchen. The door was open, and a voice resounded from within.
"Your Highness, why would you love apple pastries and not grapes? I heard you love grapes more," the cook said.
"I do, but my husband enjoys apple-flavored pastries, and from the looks of things, Lior will love them just as much."
Damon's breath hitched, his legs carrying him forward without permission. He knew that voice—he had listened to it countless times, memorized it—and now it sounded so close, too near to be true.
