Lucian lingered a moment longer in the corridor after Sebathine's retreat, his smirk still in place. The faint echo of his own laughter seemed to cling to the stone walls, a sweet reminder of the General's stiff shoulders as he marched away.
He turned, adjusting his robe with deliberate grace, ready to head toward his own quarters. But before he could take two steps, movement at the far end of the hall caught his eye.
The younger prince.
Alistair walked briskly, flanked by two guards, his silver-blond hair catching the spill of sunlight like threads of fire. His head was bent slightly, lips moving in clipped words to the men beside him. Lucian's gaze sharpened instantly.
Well, well, the almighty prince Alistair.
The smirk returned, slow and sharp.
"Prince Alistair," Lucian called, his voice slipping easily into the air, smooth and melodic.
