DRAVEN'S POV.
The throne room doors slammed open under my hand. The council flinched.
Every head turned, warriors, elders, scribes, their murmurs dying instantly when they saw my face. I could feel it, the rage still rolling beneath my skin, darker than it had ever been. The remnants of the curse whispered like ash in my veins, begging to be let out.
No one dared speak first. Good.
"Where," I said quietly, my voice carrying across the vast chamber, "were the guards who were supposed to be watching my wing?"
There was no answer.
I took a step forward. The echo of my boots struck like thunder in the silence. "Someone answer me before I start tearing down walls."
One of the elders, a wiry man with silver fur at his temples, swallowed. "My king, the queen—"
"I didn't ask about my mother," I cut in. "I asked about the guards."
"They were ordered away from the eastern corridor," another mumbled. "By royal command."
