King Tavian entered first, and Elaria understood immediately why people feared him. He was tall and broad, with iron-gray hair and eyes as cold as winter ice. His face looked like it had been carved from stone—all hard edges and harsh lines. He wore black and silver, and power radiated from him like heat from a forge.
Behind him came six men who could only be his sons. All tall, all warriors, all bearing variations of their father's harsh features. They scanned the room with calculating eyes, looking for threats, for weaknesses.
When their gazes landed on Draven, Elaria felt the hatred through the bond. It was palpable, visceral.
Tavian stopped before King Zarek's throne and inclined his head fractionally. Not a bow—merely an acknowledgment of equal status.
"King Zarek. Thank you for h
