PRANG
The shattering of fine porcelain against the polished marble floor echoed through the palace greenhouse.
The steam rose in lazy, mocking curls from the shards, and Philia let out a sharp, strangled cry that sounded like the breaking of a bird's wing. He remained frozen in his seat, his left hand clutching his chest while the scalding tea spread through the intricate lace of his sleeve. The liquid was a dark, ugly stain against the pristine white of his attire.
"My Lord!"
Valen was at Philia's side almost instantly, dropping to one knee beside the chair with none of his usual composure. His face had gone pale beneath the warm sunlight spilling through the greenhouse glass.
"Oh, dear. My hand must have slipped," Cherion said, his voice flat and lacking even the faintest shadow of remorse.
