Elric sat at the head of the long, mahogany table. He was dressed in his formal black doublet, his hair pulled back with a leather cord, looking every bit the stern, unyielding Duke of the North. But beneath the table, his hands were clenched in his lap. He had been awake since before dawn, watching the shadows move across the ceiling of the master suite while Verona remained a still, silent bundle of wool on the couch.
He had left the room before she woke, unable to face the hollow look in her eyes so early in the morning. He had gone straight to the kitchens, startling the head cook by demanding a breakfast that was, in his mind, nothing short of a miracle.
He had ordered honey-glazed ham from the southern border, fresh cream, berries that had been preserved in sugar, and the softest white bread the ovens could produce.
The dining hall doors creaked open.
