"So that Gordon bastard was hiding in our camp all this time… and he nearly managed to put his hands on this fool?" Zalyric's voice carried a biting edge as he spoke to the physician who was bent over Rowan's still body. The king leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his sharp gaze never straying from Rowan.
Even after Rowan's companions had come rushing in, Zalyric hadn't softened.
Instead, he'd ordered two of them locked away until the truth could be untangled. Trust was a luxury he didn't afford easily—not when spies were slipping through his lines like shadows.
"Tell me, then," Zalyric continued, his tone cold enough to frost the air, "if Rowan truly was a spy, why would they kill Gordon themselves? That doesn't fit the game." His eyes narrowed, his mind turning over possibilities yet something deeper stirred beneath his icy composure.
