The metallic scrape of steel sliding against leather echoed off the frozen stone pillars like a death knell.
Julian was pressed so hard against the marble column behind him that the stone seemed to bite through his thin coat. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, and frantic, staring down the gleaming edge of Duke Alexander Vance’s broadsword. A single inch of cold steel was exposed, glinting sharp and lethal in the dying golden light of the winter sun.
"Give me one reason, Mercer," Alexander whispered, his voice dropping into a flat, merciless register that carried the chill of the northern sea, "why I shouldn't sever your head from your shoulders right here on the frost."
Julian couldn't speak. His throat worked silently, his chest heaving as pure, unadulterated terror paralyzed his tongue.
