He was shocked.
His soldiers— his royal guard, his elite, the men who stood between him and death— were burning. Alive. The flames were orange. Red. They licked the armor. They consumed the cloth. They melted the steel. The men screamed. They ran. They fell. They burned.
In front of him.
The man stood.
In the center of the throne room. In the center of the fire. In the center of the carnage. As if the flames were his subjects. As if the screaming was his music. As if the burning palace was his throne.
Raven.
His violet eyes— the disguise was gone, the black gone, the violet visible— were calm. His face was calm. His body was calm. He was dressed. Not in armor. Not in battle gear. In his coat. The dark coat. Open. Unbuttoned. Beneath— bare chest. Muscled. Ridged. His trousers. His boots.
His hand was in his pocket.
The other hand was not.
The other hand was on a head.
The Duchess.
