Dorian sat stiff-backed in the shadow of the hearth, eyes fixed on the flames as if they could give him answers. His wiry frame was all elbows and sharpness, but there was something brittle in the set of his jaw. Not weakness. Not fear. Something else—an edge of grief sharpened into defiance.
Amalia had not moved from his side since they dragged him out of hiding. Her hands rested loosely in her lap, but her gaze never left him. In the firelight, her eyes looked older, heavier, shadows deep with something unspoken.
“You favor him,” Casius said quietly, standing near the window where the shutters gaped open to the night.
Amalia’s lips pressed thin. “He’s Roland’s blood.”
“That doesn’t make him safe,” Lucian cut in, his voice rough. He leaned against the wall, golden eyes never leaving D
