Then the shame hit.
Lord Halvian was the first to move. His hands, flat on the marble, pushed. His arms, shaking, lifted his torso. His face, pale and sweat-drenched, was contorted with a mixture of terror and fury. The 'I-was-on-my-knees' fury that a proud man feels when his pride has been ground into the dust.
He stood. His legs were unsteady. His retainers, surrounding him, rose with similar difficulty. Their faces mirrored his. The same fury. The same shame. The same 'this-is-not-over' determination.
"We need to leave," Halvian said. The words were directed at his allies. Quiet. Clenched. The 'we-will-discuss-this-privately' tone.
"Yes," another noble agreed. A fat man, his silk robe stained with sweat, his double chin quivering. "Indeed. We should go."
The words were quiet. Conversational. The 'you-are-dismissed' tone a king uses for servants.
