The walk to the royal guest meal chamber was a masterclass in psychological torture. Every time my leather boots clicked against the obsidian floor, a phantom pressure bloomed in my lower back, and my thighs felt like they were made of heavy, liquid honey.
Sir Alex was walking a half-step behind me, his divine aura acting like a lighthouse in the violet gloom, but his eyes were narrowed.
He was still caught between "Protective Knight" and "Confused Boyfriend" because of the biological chemical warfare I'd unleashed in my room earlier.
Raya, meanwhile, was being a total traitor. She had poked her two heads out of my silk-lined pouch and was currently hissing in my ear.
