The air in the corridor felt carved from stone long after Lucian's silhouette had vanished around the bend.
Alaric remained where he stood, rooted in place like a soldier after a battle, though no blades had been drawn. Every muscle in his body was taut, his jaw locked until it ached, chest rising and falling as though he had crossed swords with a worthy enemy. But it wasn't steel that had unsettled him.
It was silk.
It was words.
It was a smile that should have been harmless but had cut deeper than a dagger.
Care.
That was what Lucian had accused him of. The audacity of it burned hotter than any insult, hotter than any wound inflicted on a battlefield. No courtier had ever dared to breathe such a word in his direction—least of all one so newly brought into the palace. Yet what rattled him most wasn't the accusation.
It was the fleeting moment when he hadn't been able to deny it.
