Velrosa sat poised in her study, a fine-boned porcelain teacup cradled between her fingers.
The golden liquid in it shimmered faintly in the soft light of the oil lamps. Across from her sat Eli, relaxed but ever alert.
The low murmur of conversation faded the moment the door creaked open.
Ian strolled in—slow, casual, but utterly painted in red.
His cloak was stiff with dried blood. His sleeves were soaked to the elbows. The metallic scent followed him like a fog of death.
"Your Highness," he said with a slight nod, continuing his steady approach.
Velrosa set her teacup down with calm precision, her expression unreadable.
"I see you definitely encountered them. But did you succeed?"
Ian's lips curled into a wolfish grin. He stopped before the round table they sat at and spread his arms slightly.
"Watch the hands," he said.
