The room smelled of jasmine and rain.
Light slanted through the tall arched windows of the western hall, refracted through panes stained crimson and gold.
Outside, the garrison bells tolled noon, echoing over the barracks and courtyards where soldiers drilled in orderly precision. Inside, all was still — still enough that Aiden could hear his own heartbeat, steady as a war drum beneath his ribs.
He stood in the doorway, flanked by two guards. The chains at his wrists had been removed; his coat hung loose about him, its collar torn where the commander's hand had seized him the night before. Yet he carried himself like a man entering his own court.
At the table sat the four baronesses.
Lady Shina — soft-spoken, eyes like polished obsidian, her expression unreadable. Brienne Maerwyn Cirelle
Lady Brienne — older, sharp-featured, her hair bound in silver cords, fingers wrapped around a cup of tea as if it were a dagger.
