When the doors to the inner hall opened, and Alaric stepped out with Julian at his side, Zane didn't even look at Alaric first. His eyes, a bright, amber-gold, went straight to Julian.
"By the Weaver's thread," Zane called out, his voice rich and melodic, echoing off the high stone arches.
He ignored the dozen swords pointed at his chest and strolled forward with a wide, white-toothed grin.
"The rumors didn't do him justice. I thought the merchants were exaggerating about the 'Saint,' but you actually look like you were carved from a diamond."
Alaric stepped firmly in front of Julian, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The air around the Duke seemed to drop ten degrees.
"That's enough, Zane. You're a month early and ten degrees too far North. What do you want?"
Zane finally flicked his gaze to Alaric, his grin turning sharp and mocking.
"Cousin! Is that any way to greet family? I nearly lost a toe to a frost-wraith just to bring you condolences for the Empress."
