The morning light was cold, cutting sharp, unforgiving lines across the marble floor of the great hallway. Derek was dressed as the commander of the Thompson's Army. His black, high-collared military uniform was immaculate, the silver buttons polished to a mirror shine, his black boots so high they almost reached his knee. He looked hard, cold, and dangerous.
He was walking fast, his strides long and purposeful. Ian, his personal guard, followed a step behind, a silent, grim shadow.
"There is no need for you to come to camp with me," Derek said, his voice a low, clipped command. He didn't slow his pace. "Go to the Golden Swan. The place will be quiet. Check if the spies have sent any new information."
"Yes, Your Grace," Ian replied, his voice a respectful murmur.
"After I am done with the barracks, I will meet you there," Derek continued, his mind already three steps ahead.
