Lucian had barely tucked himself into the wardrobe when the door creaked open. Darkness pressed in around him, the scent of moth-eaten fabric filling his lungs. He clasped his hand over his mouth and forced his chest to rise shallowly, silently.
Footsteps shuffled unevenly across the floorboards. Heavy. Dragged. Hesitant, yet deliberate — the sound of someone not fully in control of their body. Through the narrow slit of the wardrobe's wooden panel, Lucian dared to peek.
A figure staggered into the room, the lamplight from the hall stretching his shadow grotesquely across the floor.
The sharp stench of wine hit him first. Acrid. Overwhelming. It seeped into the room as though carried on the man himself.
Then the figure leaned forward, bracing himself against the edge of the desk, and Lucian's stomach tightened.
Crown Prince Alaric.
