There is a specific kind of panic that belongs to a woman who has just watched a king get murdered in her sleep and knows she has about forty minutes to stop it from happening while awake.
Maelor's study smelled like ink, old paper, and the particular brand of obsessive organization that only belonged to a man who would commit murder over a misplaced folio.
Serena pulled Dex through the room, her grip on his hand firm, her pace certain.
The study was empty. Candles burned low in their holders, wax pooling on surfaces that Maelor would have heart palpitations about later. Research folios were stacked in towers so precise they looked load-bearing. The chair behind the desk was pushed in at an angle that suggested its occupant had left in a hurry.
"Serena." Dex's voice was low behind her. "Not that I'm not enjoying the kidnapping, but where are we going?"
