Varon lay amidst the wreckage of the crystal flutes, his breath coming in ragged, terrified hitches. The shimmering wall of steam Verona had summoned hung in the air for a heartbeat longer.
"Enough," a voice boomed from the upper gallery.
The King stood at the railing, his face unreadable in the flickering candlelight. He looked down at the Duke of Vernhardt, who stood paralyzed in the crowd, his face a mask of pale fury and humiliation.
"Duke Vernhardt," the King's voice echoed, carrying a sharp edge of disappointment. "It seems your son has forgotten how to carry his manners. I suggest you remove him from this hall and discipline him as his status requires. I will not have the anniversary stained by the brawling of children."
The Duke's jaw tightened so hard it looked as though his teeth might shatter. He bowed stiffly, the motion jerky and pained. "My deepest apologies, Your Majesty. It shall be dealt with."
