The jet-black curtain of the night had completely smothered the skies by the time the heavy oak gates of the Arcas palace ground open. The horses, their flanks lathered in sweat from the hard ride back from the border town, were surrendered to the waiting stable hands.
Theron pulled down his dark leather cloak, his jaw tightly set as he strode across the threshold of the main foyer. Instantly, a row of footmen and maids dropped into flawless, synchronous bows. Standing at the vanguard was the silver-haired figure of Mr. Romulos.
"I require an accounting of the lady I left in your custody, Mr. Romulos," Theron said, his voice cutting through the quiet grandeur of the hall like a winter wind.
The elderly butler smoothly returned from his bow, his expression a mask of placid professionalis
