The hall still buzzed with music and chatter, nobles drifting like schools of brightly dressed fish in the golden-lit waters of the palace. Among them, Lissa still imprisoned in Seraphine's body found herself face-to-face with the towering General Thorian Draxell.
His hand had only just released hers, the memory of his cold lips brushing her skin lingering far longer than she cared to admit.
"So, my lady," Thorian began, his voice deep, steady, the kind of voice that sounded like it could command armies with a single word. "What think you of the kingdom's current state? These past months, the borderlands have grown restless. Too many disputes among the lesser lords, too much greed disguised as loyalty. Would you say Her Highness's succession shall mend these cracks, or deepen them?"
Lissa blinked. Excuse me?
