The Great Hall was a shimmering, golden chaos of victory and velvet, but for Reiner, it had become a personal exercise in patience. He was currently being steered around the dance floor by Ezek, whose idea of a "waltz" was more akin to a tactical march. Reiner's eyes, however, weren't on his dance partner's clumsy footwork, they were glued to the retreating backs of Zarius and Cherion.
He was still reeling. The image of Cherion's hands, those frantic, wandering fingers, sliding over the Duke's body stayed stuck in his mind. He had seen the flush on Zarius's face, a sight more rare than a summer blizzard in the North. Reiner felt a surge of professional failure. Had he not lectured his master on the rigidity of Northern etiquette? Had he not explained that a Duke's waist was not a public playground?
