The quiet peace of the dining room didn't last past midnight.
Around 1:00 AM, a sharp, frantic pounding echoed against the outer doors of our private chambers, followed by the muffled, urgent voice of Commander Nathan.
"My Lord! Your Grace! Wake up!"
Draven's eyes snapped open in the darkness. In less than a second, the sleepy, softened husband vanished, replaced entirely by the razor-sharp, battle-ready Duke of the South. He slid out of bed with fluid silence, pulling a heavy leather belt with a steel shortsword around his waist over his velvet trousers.
"Stay here," Draven ordered quietly, pressing his hand against my cheek before striding toward the heavy double doors.
He wrenched the door open. Nathan stood in the dimly lit hallway, his armor unbuckled in a hurry, a rolled-up parchment clutched tightly in his fist. Behind him, Malaki stood with a glowing runic orb floating above his palm, casting an eerie blue light across the stone corridor.
