She had underestimated, once again, how catastrophically dangerous that beautiful bastard was when he actually 'tried'.
By the time Heenafinished signing off on the last stack of surgery tags and was finally, 'finally' walking back toward the palace proper, the sun was already tilting low on the horizon, painting everything in shades of amber and blood-orange. She rolled her stiff shoulders, hearing joints pop, and was mentally planning which husband to bully into giving her a foot massage when seven figures stepped into her path.
Seven nobles.
Different ranks, different colors of brocade and silk, but every single face equally grave. Among them stood Duke Groverstone, the old fox of the council, his usually calculating expression more lined and serious than she'd ever seen it.
Heenastopped walking. The air changed—heavy, expectant, charged with the weight of bad news.
"Your Majesty." They bowed together, the synchronized movement creating a wave of rustling fabric.
