To Julian, the mention of the 'black-haired thief' wasn't a clue—it was a warning. In his panicked mind, he saw the Emperor's logic perfectly: it didn't matter if Julian had stayed in his room all night. If the Emperor wanted Julian out of the way, or if he wanted to punish the Duke for his 'closeness' with a man that wasn't him, he would simply point at Julian's hair and call him the criminal.
Was there no law? Yes, there was law. And the law was whatever the man with the golden eyes said it was.
"Astrea?"
Alaric's voice was like a lifeline thrown into a stormy sea as Julian sank deeper and deeper without being able to pull himself up.
The Duke had noticed the way Julian had gone bone-white, the way his hand was trembling so violently that the tablecloth he gripped was rippling.
