The door of the royal bedchamber clicked shut, sealing them in the room.
The only light came from the moon that poured through the tall window, painting a silver rectangle across the flagstones and onto the edge of the king sized bed with canopy, at the middle of the room.
Elias's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage of its own making.
He had done this.
He had taken the King's hand, had led him here. He had pulled at the fastenings of Cassian's worn leather coat until it slid from shoulders still tense from war, letting it fall to the floor in a heap of dust.
Now, standing in the center of the room with the moon at his back, Cassian was a silhouette.
The faint, familiar scents clung to him—caramel—and a fading yellow bruise marked the skin over his left shoulder.
He was here, but he was not here. His gaze was fixed on something beyond the walls, beyond Elias.
Elias stood before him, feeling the silence of the room press in.
