The late morning sun bled through the tall stained glass of Prince Alaric's private study. The room smelled of fine tobacco and old books, the air thick with the weight of expectation.
Alaric stood by the window, a glass of deep amber liquor in his hand — far too early for drink, but no one dared mention it. His gaze was distant, fixed on the palace gardens below, though his mind was elsewhere.
The doors creaked open behind him.
"My Prince," came the quiet voice of his aide, Darren.
Alaric didn't turn. "Speak."
"The Duke… left Her Majesty's chambers not long ago."
Alaric's hand clenched around his glass. "And?"
"He made his displeasure known."
Alaric scoffed under his breath, downing the rest of the liquor and slamming the glass onto the table. "That arrogant bastard."
The aide hesitated, then added, "He left a message for you, Your Highness."
At this, Alaric turned, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. "A message?"
"In proverbs, my lord."
Alaric's jaw ticked.
