The scent of jasmine and spiced wine still lingered in the corridors. It clung to silk drapes and marble floors alike, the residue of laughter that had gone too long, of eyes that had glimmered too brightly. The tea party had ended hours ago, yet the castle had not quieted. It hummed—low and steady, like a hive stirred awake.
It began in whispers.
Whispers that Aiden was not the traitor they said he was. That the Blood Commander had overstepped, that the Earl of Wessex had grown paranoid.
That perhaps the "common-born knight" was something else entirely—chosen, blessed, the kind of man whose loyalty outshone the titles of lesser lords.
The women had carried his name first, their voices soft as petals over porcelain cups. They had spoken of how his eyes had seemed sincere, how his words lingered like warmth after wine.
One swore she'd seen the faint glow of light in his aura; another, that when he spoke of the realm's rot, her heart had burned with shame.
