The Warlords had finally left. The heavy oak door was locked, the "Closed" sign was flipped, and the chaotic energy of the treaty dinner had faded into silence.
The cubs had been picked up by their respective butlers and terrifying fathers—except for one.
Prince Orion was currently passed out on the rug, using his shell-backpack as a pillow, snoring with a soft, rhythmic whistle that sounded like a tea kettle.
I finished wiping down the table, scrubbing away the last sticky remnants of the glazed ham. My arms ached, but my mind was racing. We had a plan. A crazy, desperate plan involving soups and treaties, but a plan nonetheless.
I looked over at the corner of the room.
King Caspian was sitting in the rocking chair usually reserved for reading time. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back against the wall, and his breathing was shallow. The blue glow of the purification paste I'd slapped on his shoulder was dimming, turning a faint, powdery white.
