"Keep still, Your Highness. If you keep shifting your shoulders, the silk will catch on the embroidery."
Heavy floral incense filled the Crown Prince's lavish, gold-accented private chambers, making the space feel even more suffocating with frustration. Philia stood close to Yerel, carefully unbuttoning his coat soaked in sweet, sticky juice. Every movement Philia made was accompanied by a soft, irritated grumble under his breath.
Yerel stood with his arms slightly raised, his handsome face twisted into a dark, volatile scowl. The public humiliation he had just suffered in the middle of the ballroom was still burning through his veins like wildfire. He could still hear the collective gasp of the nobles, could still feel the sticky weight of the drink dripping down his chin, and could still see the absolute, lazy arrogance on Cherion's face as he pulled the trigger on that little spectacle.
