The great hall of Fort Blackthorn was lit with warm torchlight and filled with the scent of roasted meats, fresh bread, and something suspiciously spiced that made Vincent twitch with excitement every time it passed by.
Darin sat at the long, polished table,an intimidating slab of blackwood so large it could've been used as a bridge—with Grumble curled lazily on his lap and Steve sitting on the floor beside him, tail swishing contentedly as he sniffed the trays of food.
Duchess Mary sat at the head of the table, legs crossed, swirling a fresh goblet of wine.
She looked far too relaxed for someone who'd just met the man supposed to replace her as the North's Guardian. But Darin suspected that was part of the game.
"Eat," she commanded, gesturing to the feast. "It's not poisoned."
Vincent gave a dramatic sniff. "That's exactly what someone who poisoned the food would say."
Mary grinned. "Then you'll go down deliciously."
Vincent sat down anyway. "Fair trade."
