"How are you doing, Prince Florian?" she asked, her tone smooth as silk.
Elara's smile was gentle—refined, perfectly practiced, yet somehow still warm.
The porcelain cup she held barely made a sound as it touched the saucer again, her every movement deliberate and graceful.
Florian smiled politely in return.
There was something about Duke Elara—her composure, the way she carried herself—that reminded him of someone used to power.
Calm, unbothered, calculating beneath the courtesy.
"I'm doing well," he replied softly. "But really, I should be asking you, Duke Elara. You and your son were kept here unexpectedly. I imagine you must want to return to your duchy, especially with…"
He hesitated, his eyes dropping to his teacup.
The rogues.
The attacks. The unrest spreading across the kingdom like fire through dry fields.
