Lysander skimmed the instructions Lorraine had laid out, his eyes darting from line to line before he glanced up at her. "This… is about our mother, isn't it?" He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but the weight of it slipped free.
He had told her of what he knew only because she had the right to know, never intending for her to act. Certainly not now, when her husband was the hostage prince newly returned from war. She had a lot to lose.
"Lorraine, you didn't have to do this," he said, his voice taut. "I had a plan. I was going to—"
"I know," she cut him off.
Her tone was cool, but not dismissive. She understood him too well. Lysander was playing the long game. He wanted Hadrian to be ruined not with one decisive strike, but with a hundred small cuts. Pride stripped. Allies stolen. Power bled away until the old man was reduced to a husk, a burden even to his own son, needing permission for a simple glass of wine.
It was a good plan. A patient plan.
