"Ah, Prince Gillian, Duke Zarius. There you are."
Zarius walked half a step behind Gillian, his posture intentionally projecting a subtle, rigid stiffness. He allowed his shoulders to square just a fraction less than usual, his movements carrying a carefully manufactured fatigue. He looked every bit the weary Duke from the North, burdened by a delegation plagued by sudden illness and unexpected chaos.
His thoughts, however, were as sharp as ever, lingering on the quiet words Cherion had whispered before he stepped out of Iryna's room.
Keep up the act. Let them think you're weak, sick, and too tired to look beyond our own door.
Zarius intended to do exactly that. The more they viewed him as a fragile, recovering mess, the less they would look at him. And right now, looking elsewhere was exactly what they needed.
