The ride back to the palace was suffocating.
Revas didn't speak. He rode Nightmare hard, his knuckles white on the reins, his eyes fixed on the dark spires of the West Tower. He radiated a cold, vibrating rage that made the horses nervous and the Grey Ghosts keep a wide berth.
Mirabelle felt cold, but not from the wind. The image of the sketch—her sleeping face, rendered in charcoal with obsessive detail—was burned into her mind. It wasn't just a threat; it was a violation. Someone had stood over her while she was unconscious.
When they reached the courtyard, Revas didn't wait for the grooms. He slid from his saddle and marched toward the tower entrance.
"Clear the wing," he snarled at Varric. "I want every guard, every servant, every rat out of the West Tower. Now."
"My Lord?" Varric asked, startled.
"Out!" Revas roared. The shadows around him lashed out like whips, cracking against the stone. "If I find a heartbeat within a hundred yards of the Queen's door, I stop it."
