Zarius didn't falter. He kept his walk measured, hiding the tremor in his hands beneath the heavy, brocaded sleeves of his doublet. He stopped exactly three paces away. Not close enough to be intimate, not far enough to be cowed.
"Your Highness," Zarius said. His voice was a dry rasp, sounding like old parchment being smoothed over stone. "It's been awhile."
Yerel turned then, a slow, predatory pivot. His gold-stitched silk caught the dying amber light filtering through the high windows, making him look less like a man and more like a hero carved from spite and privilege. He didn't answer at first. Instead, he simply looked Zarius up and down, his eyes lingering on the pale, sunken hollows beneath the Duke's cheekbones.
