"By the way," he pressed, his voice a little steadier now, "since you're here… you must have seen Lady Shaya, the missing daughter of the Duke Cassius."
The name struck Netser like a sudden blow. His expression tightened before he could school it—just enough for Rolan to notice. His eyes flickered, betraying recognition, and then hardened again into ice.
For a heartbeat, the training yard noise in the distance faded. All Netser could hear was the memory of a girl's whisper under moonlight, a vow carried away by the wind: I will not be traded like cattle. Not even for a crown.
He drew a slow breath, steadying himself. "Careful with your tongue, young man," he said at last, his voice low, dangerous. "Names like that should not be spoken in these halls."
Rolan blinked, then he studied Netser's reaction. "Then it was her! I knew it!"
