Reynard stood frozen.
Not visibly. No tremble touched his fingers. No sweat marred his brow. He still looked every bit the refined noble son—the crest of House Crane gleaming proudly on his collar.
But inside?
His mind fractured in a dozen directions.
He dragged her in.
He actually dragged her in.
Lucavion's voice still echoed like a dagger dropped on stone. And Priscilla—gods-damned Priscilla—had chosen to answer.
That was the part he couldn't comprehend.
Not the witness from the terrace. That old man could be buried later.
Not even the crowd's whispers, rising now like an uncertain storm.
But her.
The daughter of a commoner. The living embarrassment the Crown quietly tolerated but never endorsed. The discarded bloom.
He had expected her to stay silent. Like she always did. Like she was meant to.
She had no power, no faction, no noble backing.
But she had blood.
Royal blood.
And that… was enough.
'Did they plan this beforehand?'
His throat was dry.
