"Who says she doesn't have a royal pair?"
The air turned brittle. I can feel how the air drop ten degrees.
The voice, deep and unmistakable, cut through the pavilion like the draw of a blade from a sheath. Heads turned as one—noblemen paused mid-toast, the ladies froze with fans halfway to their lips.
And there he was.
Duke Dasheill Felicé, he strode into the gathering like a storm given form. His hunting cloak swept behind him in folds of navy trimmed with silver. The exact same set the tailor made but with his stature, it was even more majestic.
Duchess Revaiosa face tightened for the first time that afternoon.
Silver turned to look. Her eyes mixed of bewilderment and confusion. Her mind stopped working. She wanted to ask him questions but the face of the ladies in front of her help her quickly gain her composure. She merely smiled and raised her porcelain teacup to her lips.
"Alek," she said softly, "step back for a moment."
Alek, ever silent, obeyed. One pace back.
