The door splintered.
Count Valdus didn't bother with a key. He signaled his elite guards, and they rammed the heavy oak wood with a battering ram that looked suspiciously like a decorative column from the hallway.
CRACK.
The door swung open, hanging off one hinge.
Valdus strode in, sword drawn, expecting to find a scene of treason or debauchery.
What he found was the Crown Prince of the Empire standing in the center of the room, dusting off his knees, looking cold, imperious, and utterly confused.
And behind him, the valet, sitting on the floor amidst a pile of glittering dust, looking like he'd just watched his puppy die.
"Your Highness!" Valdus barked, lowering his sword but keeping his eyes suspicious. "Are you unharmed? This servant—"
"Is my servant," Cassian cut him off. His voice was ice. It wasn't the lovesick warble of the last few days, nor the screaming rage of the week before. It was the deep, commanding baritone of the Tyrant.
