When Macrina returned to the King's chamber with a heavy silver tray, Hermi found Enzo standing just outside the heavy oak doors. In his hands, he cradled the clay pot of chamomile that Hermi had requested before Macrina had departed.
His face was etched with a profound worry, yet he did not dare step across the threshold. He likely remembered the King's thunderous command forbidding him from taking even a single step into the room. Seeing the shadow over the Castellan's teal eyes, Hermi spoke from the depths of the bed.
"Don't wear such a look, Enzo. I was already a bloody mess when I demanded you let me leave. It was no fault of yours that I ended up in this state."
The guilt would not recede from Enzo's face. "Your Majesty..." He lowered his head, his shoulders slumped. "Even so, I should have insisted you take a detachment of guards."
