"Mind your language."
Evriana's voice cut through the tent like a blade.
The words were quiet. The particular, low, dangerous, do-not-make-me-repeat-myself tone of a woman whose authority was absolute and was being challenged.
The commander's mouth closed.
"He is Viktor Ktorian," Evriana said. "My nephew."
The name landed.
'Ktorian.'
Not Redwood. Not Viktor-the-soldier. Not Viktor-the-pretty-boy-in-cheap-armor. 'Viktor Ktorian.' The nephew of the princess. The blood of the main line. The son of Celestia — the eldest daughter, the heir, the woman whose name was spoken with reverence in every hall of the Ktorian family.
The tent went silent.
The particular, absolute, you-could-hear-a-pin-drop silence of a room full of men who had just realized they had been sitting in the presence of royalty and had not known it.
They stood.
