"Don't let it happen," Julian called out, his voice cracking with a desperate plea.
Rowan paused, his hand tightening on the heavy brass handle. He didn't turn back immediately. In his mind, he wanted to scoff—to say that he was merely an aide, a paper-pusher for a madman, and that the movements of High Dukes and Imperial Armies were far beyond his pay grade.
He would like to sit this one out. He had meddled enough.
But then, the image of Sir Kaelen flashed in his mind and the top of his ears burned a soft red. He remembered the way the knight had looked at him as they arrived with the carriage—not with the typical disdain a warrior held for a bureaucrat, but with a sharp, piercing intensity that made Rowan's own heart skip a beat. He knew that gaze meant nothing and he was just doing his job, but he couldn't help paying attention to him.
And then there was the cold reality of the imperial dungeon. Ah.
